


Northbound

by mewlingss



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 85,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mewlingss/pseuds/mewlingss
Summary: The Lannisters aim to break and intimidate Sansa Stark by forcing her to live with the man who plotted the massacre of the King in the North. As Warden of the North, Roose Bolton is presented with the quiet and timid girl who stirs something in him; but he can't come anywhere near her. Young, scarred, and terrified to death of him, Roose knows the girl will never come to see him as anything but the Northern Traitor.Sansa goes through the journey of rebirth as she tackles her past, and embraces her future alongside her pale-eyed guardian.





	1. The North

**Author's Note:**

> So I guess this is finally happening. I've been mulling over this fic for a while now, and since I finally submitted my final honors thesis chapter yesterday– this is how I'm treating myself (and how I'm treating you all, ofcourse).

She knows where she is the moment the air turned crisper. _Home_ , she almost wept inside the jostling litter carrying her off to the impeding doom. But could anything be worse than the Lannisters? Anything worse than King’s Landing? Than Joffery? If Sansa was destined to finally snap into two in the North, then she would walk to her demise with happiness. Alteast she’d die home, where the air was chilly to the bone; fresh and biting, without the hellishness of King’s Landing. 

***

Sansa remembers how Shae had shaken her from sleep with an urgency that terrified an already frightened Sansa. She had learned to sleep with one eye open. ‘They’re sending you away!’ the woman had whispered, pulling her out of bed to get her dressed for her audience with the king and his court. 

‘What?’ she shakily asked, when Shae didn't reply and kept rummaging in the chest filled with clothes, Sansa ran to her and held on to the little maid with dear life. ‘Please, Shae, I didn't do anything, please dont let them take my head off, _please_.’ 

Probably irritated to no end with an always soppy Sansa, Shae wrenches herself from the claw like clutches. She looks like she wants to say something biting but stops herself, sighing instead, she looks squarely at Sansa. ‘They will not execute you’ she states calmly, ‘Lord Tywin has reached an agreement with the Dowager Queen and the King, you will be sent back to the North’ 

The idea that Sansa would no longer have Joffery and his minions of a Kingsguard breathing down her back, beating her to a pulp and stripping her for the whole court to laugh at felt like too much to believe. On the other hand, being confronted with the reality that she would also be back North, _Home_ , which she used to despise as a child, was too much for her. _What a stupid child I’ve been_ , she falls to her knees and hopes Shae would allow her one more sobbing episode. Sansa doesn't think a simple cry would release all the repressed emotions she’s been harboring since the day the late King Robert and Queen Cersei had ordered Lady’s death. She wanted to scream at her small chamber, a room that harbored her every day and every night after she’d been beaten bloody, humiliated by Joffery and Cersei, ignored by the entire court. She wanted to laugh at her opportunity of escape; it felt like it would come crashing on her head the moment she felt hope. 

‘Where North, Shae?’ she finally managed to ask after pulling herself from the ground and allowing Shae to undress her and slip on her Southern dresses that Cersei had once commissioned for her. 

‘For now, the Dreadfort’ Shae deliberately keeps her voice down and Sansa knows it. 

‘The Dreadfort?’ She racks her brains to figure out whose house ruled over it. A memory of her father’s study flashes through Sansa’s mind, the sprawling map of the North on his desk with the sigil of each house on its designated area. When the flayed man finally overcrowds her memories, Sansa tries not to shake with uncontrollable fear.  
‘The Boltons?’ 

Shae doesn't look her in the eyes, she simply nods. 

The Lannisters weren't doing her a favor, no, never that. They would send her off to the clutches of her family’s murderer, a _traitor_. Tears begin to prickle her eyes but something clicks into place and she manages to stop, her face armor sets where it belongs and Sansa is finally ready to walk out to the audience room. 

‘One more thing, Shae’ she needs to ask this, she needs to prepare herself before everyone sees her, before Joffery sees her. Sansa will not give him the satisfaction of seeing her break, she would be a beautiful, grateful, singing bird when he unleashes the news on her. ‘Am I to be married off?’ 

‘No, my lady. Lord Tywin has arranged for you to be Lord Bolton’s ward’ Shae whispers under her breath as they quickly race towards Sansa’s doom. 

_A ward_. She wasn't good enough to be a wife, not to a heartless, childish king, and now, not even to a traitor. 

***

 

The procession stops at Moat Cailin where Sansa is to present herself to her new Lord and Liege. She remembers hearing terrifying stories from Bran and Arya, across the feast hall in Winterfell when they were all still happy and safe, about the ruthless and soft-spoken Roose Bolton. A man so bloodthirsty he flayed men for sport, a man who had the emotions leeched from him by small, filthy slugs. Sansa wished with every bone in her body that these tales would be nothing but silly gossip that Arya and Bran tossed at each other to see who would quack first. 

Alone and scared in the land that once belonged to her family, Sansa steels herself in her thin Southern robes and exits the litter. The air bites her skin and she thinks pain had never felt more welcomed as now; something familiar that brought memories of her huddling into her father’s furs, Robb defending her sensitivity to snow against Arya’s aggressive mockery of her. 

Glancing around her, she takes in the pitiful and rundown scene of Moat Cailin; destroyed to almost ruination after its siege against the Greyjoys. Sansa swallows the rising bile as she remembers the traitorous Theon; _I am surrounded everywhere_. When she notices the audience awaiting to greet her, she removes any trace of fear or grief and instead plasters on her face the perfect model of poise, gratefulness, and solemnity. She keeps her chin up, but doesn't stare anyone in the face until she is respectfully presented by her newly appointed guards to her new Lord. Everything stills but the faraway neighing of the horses, and the rushing soldiers in the open courtyard. Her eyes slowly climbs up the strong frame before her until she returns the steady gaze that chills her to the bone. 

_grey heartless eyes_ , is the first thing that she thinks when Lord Bolton steadily holds her gaze in quiet observation. Set jaws with a month old stubble gracing it, sandy colored hair thinning at the front of his head, and thin lips set in a grim line. The last face her brother Robb had looked upon as its owner ran his dagger through him. She stops her shuddering and steadies her gaze back at him. 

‘Lady Sansa’ his voice rumbles from within as it stills her in place with its severity, ‘The North welcomes you back’ 

She doesn't say anything for a few heartbeats, feeling the uncomfortable gazes of the people around her willing her to speak but she couldn’t. However, she still maintains eye-contact with Lord Bolton, searching his face as if trying to locate the precise reason of why he had betrayed her brother. He knows this, and stands still, allowing her to continue until she stops her lifeless gaze from roaming the ridges of his face and curtsies to him. 

Sansa thinks he wont let her out of his sight until she begs and grovels her gratitude like Joffery would’ve liked, but Lord Bolton nods sharply at her, his gaze already turning to his men. ‘Find my ward comfortable quarters’ 

He marches past her towards the readied horses, when he stops by Sansa’s side she tries not to flinch at the proximity between them. ‘I’ll be back by dinner, which I hope you would honor me by taking it with me, my lady’ 

She lets out a breath when he takes a step back. ‘To discuss your new situation, ofcourse’ 

‘Yes, my lord’ she throws behind her back, not caring if he hears her or not. She follows her designated guard into the ruins of the castle, feeling the grey gaze burning into her back.


	2. Acquainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa becomes acquainted with the Lord of the Dreadfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so thankful for all those who commented and left kudos! no worries, all your roose x sansa demands will be met– in due time ;)

She locked the door to her chamber once she's inside, ignored any incessant maid's calls, and striped herself of the wet robes. Sansa could still feel Lord Bolton's gaze on her; gauging and calculating her reactions to her new surroundings. Now that she was his ward, he'd expect some duties from her. He wanted to see how far he could stretch her thin. _I've been stretched too much_ , she didn't need to remind herself as she glanced at her worn out body through the looking glass. Scattered with colored bruises and dug fingertips, her body carried around her humiliations and abuses. She wrenched her gaze from the mirror and climbed into her sleeping pallet, hiding herself among the furs until sleep robbed her of her whirring thoughts. 

***

Violent, heavy knocking shook Sansa from her sleep. She stared drowsily around her until the past few days dawned on her; Shae relating the news, Joffrey's smug amusement as he sits on the Iron Throne staring down at her, and Lord Bolton's direct grey gaze. Knocking her out of her drowsiness, Sansa heard his bellowing outside her door– his aggressive knocking caused her to trip through the furs to get through the door. She opened the door hurriedly, adjusting her undertunic to face Lord Bolton's imperious gaze. He was angry, very angry– looked like he was grounding on his teeth to stop himself from yelling. 

'My lord?' Sansa breathed out hesitantly. _please, gods, please dont let him punish me_. 

He gave her a once over, taking in her indecent state of dress and moved away from the door to stare instead at the already shrinking maids. 'Lady Sansa is alive and well, not dead, simply sleeping' his voice as guttural as she remembered it, but with a controlled strain. 

He glanced back at her, and she nodded in agreement. 'I'm..' 

'Late' Lord Bolton intoned disinterestedly, he then turned to the maids, 'prepare her ladyship for dinner, and try to count to ten before you cause a riot under my roof.' 

He gave Sansa one last glance, his eyes pouring over her, and then Lord Bolton disappeared down the dim hallway. Finally alone with their new mistress, they shower her with apologies and assert their concern for her safety. 

'You wouldn't open the door, m'lady' a stout, blond girl rushed through her words as she brushed Sansa's hair, 'No matter how much we knocked. We thought the worse' 

'There was no need to disturb Lord Bolton'

'But we had strict instructions to report to his lordship in any matter regarding his ward' another girl spoke as she brought forth a woolen dress in the grey colors of house Stark. 'That would be you, my lady' her smile had a dimple to it that brought warmth to Sansa's heart after nearly collapsing in fear from the intensity of Lord Bolton's gaze. 

'I seemed to have worried you both, and have been rude' Sansa murmured apologetically, 'I didn't catch your names?' 

'Tilly, my lady' the dimple-faced girl curtsied, and pointed towards her blond companion. 'And this here is Genna' 

'Nice to meet the both of you' they helped her slip on the wrap dress around her body. She ignored the glances they exchanged her shoulder once their gazes took in her discoloured body. 

Once she was ready, Sansa found herself stilling mid-step towards the door. She turned to her maids, already cleaning up her chamber. 'Have you two been here long?' 

Tilly shook her head, 'No, my lady, we come from the Twins with Lord Bolton's host. We've just arrived after the lord's bastard lay seige to this place' 

_The twins?_. 'Y–you were there?' She didn’t have to say it, their paling faces were answer enough for her. 

'We're sorry, my lady' Genna started but Sansa cut her off with a tight smile and turned to the dinner she dreaded. 

***

Lord Bolton was seated at the table reading letters when Sansa was announced. She walked in trepidation towards her seat, he surprised her by standing up and walking around the table to pull out a seat for her. 

Her gaze wouldn't go up higher than his jaw, which was much more relaxed than earlier. 

'I apologise for giving you such a scare earlier' he murmured in his soft toned voice, Sansa doubted he was truly apologetic. 'Your maids started a riot over your well-being' 

He was still behind her, hands on the back of her chair when she finally inclined her head and nodded. Was that the only thing he wanted to apologise for? _no, Sansa, dont think of that. Not here._

Sansa tried to steady her hands under the table as to not agitate herself with how painfully slow Lord Bolton walked to his chair. When he finally took his seat, they both stared at each other. Heartless grey on Tully blue. Sansa found herself searching his face again, but he had a perfect mask of pure courtesy; no sign of the man who ran a dagger through her brother, the man who traded his oaths for a title. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he see a pawn he could move around to further his own ambitions? Another body to flay? She had saw how his eyes had slid to the bruises littering her collarbone when he was at her door earlier. Now his eyes were trained on the yellowing old bruise on the side of her jaw. 

'Your room is suited to your taste?' He finally asked after their scrutiny of each other had subsided, he reached for his utensils to start eating. 

'Thank you, my lord' she found no appetite in the steaming hot game before her, and simply set herself to cutting her food into small pieces then to even smaller pieces. 

They dined in silence for a few heartbeats till his lordship decided to steer the conversation into another topic. 'It must've been quite a shock when Lord Tywin informed you of being fostered under my house' 

'Yes, my lord' Cersei had smiled at her wickedly and congratulated her little dove. Joffrey had given her one last goodbye; the fading bruise on her jaw. Lord Tywin looked almost relieved to be rid of all Starks from King's Landing. 

He raised one eyebrow at her, almost expectantly, 'What did you make of it?' 

'I-I am very grateful, my lord' she was the paragon of sweetness and meekness, however, she couldn't bring herself to smile. Not to him. 

He dropped his utensils suddenly and trained his hard gaze at her. 'I'm sure Lord Eddard didn't raise a stuttering fool. Do you have something else to say besides yes lord or thank you lord?' 

Sansa held his gaze. 'No, my lord' 

She saw one side of his lips tug at that, but he returned to his glacier countenance. Sansa wanted to be back in her bed, among her furs where she wouldn't be bothered with amusing this traitor with forced conversation. 

'You will be taken care of here, Lady Sansa.' He leaned back into his seat. Finished with his food, he idly tapped his finger against the table. 'The North is your home and nothing shall harm you whilst you're under my care' 

She weighed his words. She couldn't tell if there was a single sincere bone in his body or whether his mask of propriety was truly sincere. 

_Traitor_ rang in her head, stopping Sansa from acknowledging his words as true. 

'If his highness saw it fit to send me here then it is my duty to accept his generous offer' Even the words sounded too sickly sweet to her. 

Lord Bolton sighed heavily and glanced elsewhere as he let her finish her meal. The doors swung open suddenly and a man with bright, shining eyes stalked into the room. The way his gaze scrambled over the whole of Sansa made her skin turn ice-cold. 

'Father!' He grinned widely at her, 'you didn't tell me we would be entertaining tonight' 

His father's gaze fell on his bastard dismissively, and then returned steadily on Sansa's visibly shaking form. 'I can't see how this is any of your business, Bastard' 

_Ramsay Snow_. Something about the way he stared and smiled seemed almost manic. Sansa wanted to run away from here. She wanted to burrow into her own skin away from these men's gazes. 

'Well ofcourse it concerns me' he took the seat on her right, elbows on the table before him as he rested his chin on one palm, gazing at Sansa intently. 'I now have a sister' 

Sansa was almost proud of the way she dragged her eyes away from Ramsay without retching. But the tears welling in her eyes were threatening to come out, and Lord Bolton could clearly see it. He looked as disapproving as ever. 

'Lady Sansa is my ward, therefore not of concern to a bastard' she could sense visibly Ramsay flinch beside her at the word Bastard. She noted this. 

'Fair enough' the bastard leaned back into his chair, but she could still feel him staring at her. 

After another considerable silence Ramsay finally let out a laugh, 'Joffrey must've really enjoyed his little plaything. Look at her, Father' 

Sansa's hands stilled in midair. She won't cry. She won't cry. _You will not cry_. But she was damaged beyond redemption, and so the tears started flowing and all she could do was blink back the humiliation as Ramsay chuckled at her. 

'Get out' she glanced up at Lord Bolton, believing he was done with her pitiful display of despair, but his hard gaze was trained on his bastard. 'Get up and get out now. If you will act in such a disgusting manner then you dont belong amongst lords and ladies' 

Ramsay stared daggers back at his father and then with no more words to share, stalked out of the room. 

Lord Bolton got up from his seat and walked towards Sansa's, extending towards her a squared linen for her tears. She stared up at him until her tears stopped blurring her vision and she could see his grey eyes again. His face, now clear of any irritation, was as impassive as when he greeted her in the courtyard. 

'I wish to retire to my room' she found her voice finally. He looked formidable to her from her position, like his entire form engulfed her from all sides. 

'By all means' he glanced to the doors as invitation for her to take her leave. 'Take it' He gestured to the squared linen. 

She got up from her chair, her knees barely carrying her, and faced Lord Bolton, trying not to think about his close proximity to her. She reached out and touched the linen, when Lord Bolton suddenly grabbed her wrist. She almost screamed right then, but she dowsed it. However, the panicked look in her eyes showed her new Lord the extent of the degradation and torture she had experienced. 

Lord Bolton leaned down until Sansa could feel his breath tickling her skin. His eyes searched her face before saying, 'the Lannisters can't reach you here. You're safe' 

_Is that what you told my brother?_ , she wanted to ask. Glancing at the linen now in her clenched hand, she thought of whether this was the same napkin Lord Bolton had wiped Robb's blood off with. 

He finally let her go and Sansa _ran_ out of his sight.


	3. Overdue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose shows concern. Sansa is conflicted, but overdue reproach resurfaces over dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on spring break, so it's really the only reason why i have so much time on my hands for writing. That, and how much I'm a sucker for this pairing. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

She doesn't see Ramsay for the following three days, not even during her dinners with Lord Bolton. Although the lord barely acknowledges Sansa in the day, not when they cross each other through the hallway nor when he does his inspection rounds on the soldiers in the courtyard, he still insisted on those late night dinners. For the life of her, Sansa couldn't possibly understand why Lord Bolton would even bother with spending time with her. She was his prisoner, trapped under his thumb until the Lannisters had other plans for her. Besides, she barely even spoke to him as they dined, only inclined to answer his questions with a quiet yes and no, or nodded her head to whatever reflection he has to offer. He wasn't possibly amused by her dampened countenance, but when all his attempts at conversation were foiled, he'd have this smirk on his face as he glanced out the window behind her, letting her eat in peace. 

 

Although the night was his, Lord Bolton allowed Sansa to walk the grounds of Moat Cailin; which surprised her. She thought he'd trap her inside her chambers with no company but her maids, but the next morning after their first dinner he had sent one of his Bolton men to escort her wherever she wished around the castle. Sansa took up her morning walks again, an activity that used to be her only respite back at King's Landing. Shae would be two steps behind her as Sansa wandered around in the Keep's gardens, willing her steps to erase whatever torment she had to go through at the hands of Joffrey and his henchmen. But now, Sansa wasn't sure what she was running away from. Ramsay was nowhere in sight, his father had made it clear it he had no business addressing Sansa in any way possible. She almost felt grateful towards Lord Bolton. As grateful as a prisoner could be. 

 

By the end of her first week amongst the Bolton men, Sansa had given up all hope on ever having any friends surrounding her. Caged birds don't have friends around, they simply chirped on their own until the sadness cascaded out their cage. But her walks were a comfort to her, she was especially enjoying the day's walk, the whirring winds had calmed and Sansa didn't have to pile herself into too many furs. Her guard left a good distance between the two of them, allowing Sansa some privacy of space and mind. 

 

'I see you've become quite religious in your walking activities' she heard his strong footfalls catching up with her, his voice caused strange prickling on her skin. 

 

She halted in her step to hastily curtsy to him. He was dressed in his boiled leather jerkin and breeches, sheathed sword at his side. He had forgone his furs today, she noted. Sansa had come to the conclusion that the cold doesn't bother the Lord of the Dreadfort. _the Warden of the North_ , she corrected herself. His usual countenance of solemnity and uninterest was the same, except it was softened around the edges somehow. 

 

'Walking helps, my lord' she murmured back. He gestured for her to take up her step again, marching next to her and keeping a good distance between them; hoping not to cause her to flinch as before. _That was considerate of him_ , thought Sansa. Even if the reason she couldn't stand being near him was blinding her with grief and madness. 

'It helps with your sleep?' Sansa had an intake of breath and quickly stared at him suspiciously.  
'Pardon, my lord?' 

 

He held her in place with his grey gaze, the Lord of the Dreadfort had quite a determined expression. 'Its come to my attention that, unfortunately, you've been plagued by nightmares in your sleep' 

 

Sansa felt the blood rushing to her temples, and hoped to both the old and new gods that she doesn't look as perplexed and embarrassed as she felt. 

 

'Dont fret, my lady' lord Bolton's voice has this magical element that makes Sansa bend to it, as now she felt his voice calm the rushing blood in her ears. 'I'm in the adjoining room, therefore I'm prone to hearing your unfortunate predicament. No one else is aware'

 

She doesn't say anything. She finds no words to reply with. The idea of Roose Bolton being next door to her chambers, privy to her every sigh and scream was both terrifying and alarming to her. 

 

'I apologise for any inconvenience I've caused, my lord' 

 

He seemed almost annoyed with her meek reply, but he bit down on his intended retort and instead shook his head dismissively at her. 'You've nothing to apologise for, Lady Sansa. We have no Maester amongst us, seeing as we've been marching for war, however my men can procure seed of the poppy for you' 

 

'No' she stumbled through the snow, either from the thought of being unconscious in a castle filled with murderous Bolton men, or from the alarming gentleness in his tone, only to be steadied by Lord Bolton. He grasped her forearm to keep her from further tripping but she couldn't help the yelp that escaped her mouth. He had touched a tender spot on her forearm; a fresh bruise courtesy of Ser Blount on the eve of her departure. 

 

Lord Bolton snatched his arm away as if she had singed his fingers with wildfire. 

 

'Is that a––?’ 

‘––Bruise’ she supplied, 'it's only a bit too fresh. Nothing to worry yourself with, my lord' 

He was grounding on his teeth again. Sansa watched him tear his gaze away from her expression and stare at a point above her plaited head. 'I'll see you at dinner, my lady' 

 

When she returned to her chambers after long walk, a small bottle with white liquid and ointment were placed on the small table in her chamber's solar. Sansa didn't need much deduction to know who left her these. Tilly had come to draw a bath for her and looked elated when she noticed the ointment cream. 

 

'May I?' She wondered, sending glances to the bruises and cuts on Sansa's body. 

 

She hesitated for a minute. She really didn't want to be indebted to the Lord of the Dreadfort, but the look on everyone's face once they notice her scarred body steeled her resolve and she nodded her consent for Tilly to apply the cream. 

 

***

She decided to thank him once the plate in front of her was finished. 

 

Lord Bolton was already done with his meal, simply glancing around the room in silence; brain whirring with plotting and war, and gods know what else. But he always had the grace enough to let her finish her food in peace. Once her food was finished, she set about thinking of how to thank him. Saying it outright was too much for her, her tongue felt too heavy and if she looked him in the eyes while thanking him she'd probably faint from humiliation and self-disgust. The tankard of wine glistens back at her. Maybe an act of kindness would be thanks enough. 

 

Leaning over the table, she reached for the wine and moved to pour some into Lord Bolton's empty cup when he stopped her by shielding it. His lips tugged into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes; a smile more for her sake than for sincerity. 'No, thank you, my lady. I dont partake' 

 

She almost asks why not. But she remembered herself sitting before Cersei, words spilling from her big mouth as the queen smiles gleefully at Sansa's willingness to blabber on too much. Instead Sansa nodded back at him, feeling her predicament again at her failing attempts to thank him. 

 

'It dulls the senses' he amended, grey eyes seeking hers out. 'I'd rather keep my wits about me' 

 

Sansa decided to thank him after a glass of wine. She poured herself a cupful and sipped on it delicately, swirling the liquid in her mouth. When she finally swallowed, she looked up at Lord Bolton's narrowed gaze. 

 

'Well?' He prompted her, 'is there hope for our wine production?' 

 

'It's good, my lord' She thought she'd stop there but once her mouth opened she couldn't stop it. 'But my lady mother always told me Lord Frey had the finest wine, especially at his wedding feasts. Did you keep your wits about you at my Uncle Edmure's wedding too, my lord?' 

 

She braced herself to be stricken, but Lord Bolton had merely lost the smile that was beginning to tug at the side of his lips, only to look almost relieved. As if now he had cracked open the secret of her insolence and silence towards him. 'I never drink at all, my lady' 

 

The need to bait him into producing any sort of reaction, but the sullen silence of studying her every move and breath, was not satisfied. She wanted him to get angry for bringing up the wedding, or for him to laugh at her simpleton, emotional mind for still holding a grudge against him. 

But instead, Sansa sat there twirling her glass of wine and avoiding his eyes. 

 

'I did what I must' he finally rumbled from the back of his throat. 'I dont expect you to ever forgive me, but I did it for the North. One day, I hope you would come to see it as such' 

 

'He was king of the North' she blinked back her tears, 'if there was someone who held the North in his heart, it was my brother' 

 

'He was ruined, he would've dragged us all to ruination and destruction with him' 

 

Her skin turned clammy, shifting between hot and cold at dangerous speeds that Sansa thought she would be sick right there and then. 'Yes, my lord' 

 

Something ticked Lord Bolton off. He was suddenly by her seat, his fingers angling her chin up so he could look her in the eyes. She didn't have time to flinch or scream from his touch, but simply stilled in his hold. Grey eyes brewing a storm inside them as he glared back at her. 'You're a Northern woman, enough with these pleasantries and timidity. Bite back. Be a wolf.' 

 

_Arya would bite back. She'd make fun of me._ Sansa's eyes are so wide she thought they'll pop out of her skull from a mixture of both terror and surprise. 

 

'Thank you' she blurted out breathlessly, her mind a blank space that allowed all sort of nonsense to escape her small mouth. 

 

Taken off guard, Lord Bolton frowned down at her but didn't take his hand away. 'What?' 

 

'For the ointment' she visibly relaxed in his hold now. 'I wanted to thank you.' Maybe it was the fact that she had finally confronted him with the ill feelings she'd been harbouring since she'd seen him. She wanted to understand, why did he betray her beautiful older brother and mother? Sweet Robb who always defended her, who brought her lemon cakes, who could've been the saviour of house Stark. Her mother would no longer brush her auburn hair before she slept. 

 

Lord Bolton's fingers lingered on her chin, but only for a moment more before he tore them away and returned to his chair. 'Tomorrow we ride to Winterfell' 

 

_Home_. She nodded at him and took her leave. 

 

When her hand was on the door knob, he murmured something that Sansa almost barely caught, 'Sleep well' 

 

She took a sip from the milk of the poppy as she settled into bed, and wondered if he's on the other side of the wall, listening in on her. She sleeps with the feeling of his eyes on her.


	4. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a bad dream, thankfully Roose was there to help her ride it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the first chapter i wrote when i first got the idea for this fic. so here it is, folks, the scene that launched a thousand ships!

The dream started as it always did. The throne room stretched out before her and she could distinctly feel the marble floor press into her knees. She was naked all over, her dress in tatters around a hooded Kingsguard's sword. Sansa could feel the welts on her skin rising into a red, bleeding gash. Her pain is both inward and outward, as faces blurred around her in laughter and mockery. 

 

Traitor. 

Silly girl. 

Whore. 

Little bird. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

 

Joffrey sits on his throne glaring down at her with a vicious smile on his face, making Sansa throw her herself at his feet and beg. He likes her when she begs; sometimes he'd stop his kingsguard from lashing her if she begs just sweetly enough for his ears. She's kneeling before him with her forehead pressed against the cold marbled floor. Fingers digging into her arms until she extracts blood. When the whole throne room is silent, Sansa thinks that this is it, the king is bored now and will send her away. But he doesn't. He has a mass of her hair twisted around his fist and he drags her across the floor by it, laughing away at her screams and tears.

 

_"Sansa!"_ , someone yelled at her. 

She wanted to apologize, 'I'll be good. I swear I'll be good. Please. _Please_ " she shrieked as she felt the hair being pulled from her skull in such violence that she woke up. 

 

Her eyes open as she lunged off her back in a shrieking breath. Someone had his arms around her to hold her in place. 

 

'You're awake, Sansa' the voice is warm, low and soft. 'Breathe' 

 

The tears fall on their own accord when Sansa is conscious enough to realize it was only a dream that had scared her so much. Silly girl. 

 

The fingers on her forearm are drawing circles on her skin, alleviating the sensory pain of the dream and relaxing Sansa into the warmth of her chamber. She glanced up at the form next to her and tried to stop her tears. Lord Bolton himself sat in the middle of her bed beside her, garbed in his breeches and a loose linen shirt. He frowned down at her but his eyes had a certain softness around them that it calmed Sansa's erratic beating heart. 

 

'I'm sorry' she started to move away but he keeps her within reach. 

 

'Just breathe' his murmuring assured her that he's not mad at her for waking him up.

They sit in the middle of her furs, Sansa counting her breathing until it evened out, and she was no longer racing for air anymore. And Lord Bolton drawing lazy circles on her forearm until her shaking is less from her dreams, and more from the feeling of her being pressed flush against him. Was she that loud? Why did he bother to come here? Him, of all people to comfort her. 

 

Sansa finally looked him in the eyes and saw him eyeing the now damp tunic she's wearing. 

'You'll freeze' he stated it matter of factly. 

 

He released her from his hold and moved about to huddle the furs over her shivering body until she's curled up in the middle of the bed again. Sansa sensed him stoking the fire in the brazier, his presence just behind her back. She waited for him to ask about her dreams but he didn't. She must've been screaming Joffrey's name all night long, he wouldn't possibly humiliate her anymore. 

 

'We leave at first light' she heard the door lock into place and then she was alone again. His touch still ghosting over her skin. 

 

*** 

 

The courtyard was bustling with men rushing to prepare horses, and maids shuffling between litters and carriages preparing for the long journey. Sansa had made Tilly and Genna promise that she would help them with packing her belongings, feeling too restless to be served like an actual lady. Because she really wasn’t anymore; those days were over. 

 

The girls had agreed after much hesitation, and as the three of them carried around packs after packs throughout the castle and the courtyard the maids would keep looking over their shoulders, afraid Lord Bolton would jump on them. 

 

‘Calm down, please, they're my belongings' she smiled at them, she hadn't smiled in a very long while. It still felt a little too false and plastered on her face but she didn't want anyone to take one look at her and figure out she's been screaming and crying all night to the point where their lord had to come in and placate her. Her face burns at the memory of Lord Bolton holding her in his arms. So she glanced at her worrying maids and tried to keep them at ease, 'I want to help too' 

 

'Yes, m'lady' they both intoned hesitantly. 

 

After they packed Sansa's belongings in the designated litter, they stand aside to let the men pass to ready their horses. Casting a sweeping glance across the courtyard, Sansa caught Lord Bolton staring back at her. The brunt of his gaze made her quickly stare anywhere else but at him, her skin started reddening all over and last night came back in flashes. She'd really humiliated herself yesterday, both at the dinner table and with her nightmare. Why Lord Bolton hadn't lost his patience with her yet still surprised her. She discreetly tried to get another glance at him, only to find him marching up to her, his generals dispersing from their little council. 

 

He was garbed in full Bolton attire this morning, the reddish boiled leather jerkin and breeches, the flayed man sigil gracing the chest of the jerkin; stark and alarming as to remind his enemies who this man really was. Dark furs were tossed across his shoulder to shield him from the rising winds. His scowl dismissed her maids by itself, they scurried away from her like mice. 

 

'Have I missed something?' He drawled out, crossing his arms across his chest. 

 

Sansa suddenly felt smaller and smaller against his large frame. 'My lord?' 

 

'Has my ward suddenly been demoted to a mere scullery maid?' 

 

She blinked back at him. Was this his humorous tone? ’I was helping them' 

 

He stood there gazing down at her until Sansa started shifting awkwardly, trying to shake off the intensity of his gaze. 'Where's my horse?' 

 

Finally he relented and uncrossed his arm, the subtle amusement shifted to uninterest again. 'You're well enough to ride on your own?' 

 

She glared up at him this time. That surprised him– he motioned for her to follow him to her mare. 

 

Sansa stood infront of the horse with wide eyes. It was a large mare, pale white and beautiful but far too large for her to climb on without hurting every aching and bruised part of her body. Hands were suddenly on her waist, and Sansa was being carried onto her mare. She nodded her head thankfully as Lord Bolton withdrew his touch. 

 

'We'll get you home, Lady Sansa' 

 

***

 

Sansa hurt everywhere; her thighs ached even though she had kept alternating between riding astride and sideways. Lord Bolton fell back in step with her, 'would you rather ride at the back of a litter, my lady?' 

 

She shook her head stubbornly at him and held her head up high in all her uncomfortableness. 'There's no need. Thank you, Lord Bolton' 

 

'You're hurt' he stated as a matter of fact, voice low and only for her to hear. 'You should be resting your body' 

 

'This body' she spat out, almost angrily, almost surprising Roose Bolton with a different flavor of emotions, 'has endured much worse than you can begin to imagine, my lord. So no, I dont need to be put into a litter like an invalid' 

 

He gave her a once over, then nodded as he reined in his horse and shot out, but not before throwing a biting remark behind his shoulder, 'then keep up' 

 

_or else you'll flay me?_ , she almost bellowed after him. And her almost reaction surprised her; she gets angry now? 

 

'Father rarely has a temper' Ramsay sidled up next to her, 'but when he does, it's much better to stay away' 

 

Sansa tried not to shudder at the sickly way his voice slithered up her spine, but she nodded at him. 'I'll remember that, my lord' 

 

'I think we'll be best friends, sister' he grinned down at her. When she saw his fingers reach out to brush her hair away, her hand shut out and swatted him. 

 

'Dont. Touch. Me.' She muttered out incoherently, chin quivering.   
His manic bright gaze zeroed down on her in blinding rage and he leaned in with a sneer. 'You'll pay for that, you Stark bitch' 

 

'Lord Snow!' One of the generals called for him, Sansa stared at him in thankful relief; the soldier blinked back in understanding. 'Lord Bolton requires your assistance' 

 

Ramsay gave Sansa one last sneer before he rushed past her.


	5. Inquisitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets a familiar face, seeks out company and gets more than she bargains for. Winterfell looms before the new Warden and his ward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys!! your comments are so encouraging and SMART, you're all making my day xx Hope you enjoy this one, and pray that i remain on this writing streak ;) 
> 
> also who's ready for tonight's disastrous episode? sure as hell ain't me.

The first time they made camp, Sansa let Lord Bolton help her down her mare. She didn’t want to think about why she was getting accustomed to having his hands on her. 

He noticed the direction of her gaze towards her maids and stepped in front of her, trapping her between his chest and the mare behind her. 'No' one word saturated in a lord's power and resilience. 

He didn't give her a chance to reply but thundered on his way, expecting her to follow. When she didn't, he took one glance at her crushed expression and went back for her. 

'I'd rather you join my knights and myself in our tent to sup, my lady' he amended, expression softening for a fraction, but he was impatient with having to deal with her sour moods. 

Sansa glanced up at him, searching his face for any indication of his sincerity. 

'It would be their honor' He supplied clippingly. 

'The honor is all mine, my lord' she glimpsed him shaking his head at her and presented his arm for her to take. 

She ignored it and marched by herself towards the already erected tent. Lord Bolton was already by her side, having no trouble catching up. 'Are you glad to be on your way home?' 

_Winterfell has been sacked. My brothers hung on its walls, and the rest of my family will never lay eyes on it again._ 'I wonder if it is wise to take the Kingsroad, my lord?' 

'No one would dare attack the Warden of the North, not even hungry bandits' he replied flatly. 

Sansa glanced up at him to gauge his reaction, 'no one would've thought to murder the King of the North either, but here we are, my lord’ 

He cast his gaze skyward, and then opened the tent flap for her, 'My lady' 

She should've walked in and be done with it, but her gaze drifted beyond Lord Bolton's outstretched arm to find herself staring back at Theon Greyjoy. 

She almost thought it wasn't him. The once cocky and self-assured Ironborn with a headful of brownish curls and a ready winning smile was back-bent, with a lost look in his eyes, his once luscious hair coursed with white hairs. Theon Greyjoy, the murderer of her brothers, the turncloak, another traitor, was a shell of the boy she had known before. 

Lord Bolton followed the direction of her gaze and dropped the hand separating the once Stark children. Theon was staring fearfully at Sansa's paling face, almost as if he would be sick at the spot from the intensity of her gaze. She wanted to scream at him, to snatch Lord Bolton's longsword and run it through this murderer, she wanted to tear the skin off his face. But all she could do was pale even more and come to the realization that she was in a nest of vipers; all alone, the last Stark. 

'What is he doing here?' She managed to find her voice to ask the stilled figure of Lord Bolton. She couldn't tear her gaze off Theon. 

Lord Bolton opened the tent flap again and ushered her inside, she slipped in before he could place his hand on her. 

'After my bastard had won back Winterfell, as instructed by your late brother, he took care to give the Ironborn treatment befitting a turncloak' 

_What was your treatment, Lord Bolton?_ 'I dont want him anywhere near me' 

She doesn’t utter a single word through the whole night, doesn't even bid any of the knights or lords a goodnight. She simply stole out of the tent searching for her maids to get her to her sleeping pallet. 

*** 

The march felt endless. Although nothing would compare to being back home in the North, the freezing weather reminded Sansa dearly of her distaste for the North when she was younger. 

_Winter is coming_ , she looked up at the darkening sky; the dark wouldn't stop Roose Bolton's relentless need to be behind castle walls. She hadn't spoken to him since the day of the first camp. Sometimes, he'd fall back and watch the procession of his march on the side of the road with his knights by his side. If Sansa passed by him, he would greet her by simply nodding; she wasn't sure if he was irritated with her dismissive behavior or he was only preoccupied with his long-awaited arrival at Winterfell. On the other hand, she had managed to avoid both Theon and Ramsay successfully. 

However, she was almost a little sick of how lonely she felt; no company, no conversation. When they camped again, she set out to look for her maids. Sansa looked everywhere but wasn't able to find them, she kept pushing and pushing to the outskirts of their camp until she suddenly found herself in the middle of thickets. She thought of calling for help but then that would show how foolish she was. Sansa wadded between the bushes, careful as to not hurt herself when she heard the sounds of a rushing spring. 

Fresh water! She almost ran out into the clearing surrounding the rushing spring when she saw the horse tied to a tree branch, waiting for its master. Sansa knew whose horse it belonged to, and she should've turned around but something pushed her to take a few steps to the side and peer out into the clearing. 

There was nothing showing of Lord Bolton except his broad shoulders and the back of his head. Sansa found herself eagerly watching the Northman relax in the water, even if it was freezing. Lord Bolton was always so mildly tempered, tight-lipped, and unflinching, but seeing him almost so carefree in his swift strokes in the river presented Sansa with a new man before her eyes. He was unaware of her intrusiveness, she wondered if many maidservants at the Dreadfort curled around corners watching their lord bathe, if they wondered what he was like beneath his boiled jerkins and furs. But then this was the curiosity and expected behavior of a maidservant, not a noble lady. Sansa thought of Septa Mordane and how scandalised she would be if she found her pupil watching a man bathe. But the septa and her lessons were for another girl, another lifetime. 

Her gaze must've been burning a hole in the back of his skull, for Lord Bolton suddenly stilled and almost seemed to give himself to the count of three until he whipped around to stare at his spy. But Sansa was fast enough to slip in the shadows of the trees. She stood there heaving and labouring through her breathing loudly, not quite understanding the flush that was forming on the top of her cheeks, nor why her heart was beating so erratically against her ribs. She slowly brought herself to a silent, quiet breathing sequence that allowed her to take one last glance back at Lord Bolton. 

A sharp gasp escaped her when she found herself face to face with the man himself, hastily dressed in his unlaced breeches, dripping wet as he stood before her, naked from the waist up. She could see his dark curls trailing down to where his breeches were unlaced, his eyes boring into her own frantic ones. 

She tried to say something; anything. She could stammer an apology, an excuse of getting lost, anything to cover up the fact that his new ward, the respectable Sansa Starks, had stood there for a few solid moments just gazing down at his thickset body swimming through the lake. He could see it all over Sansa's reddened face, his eyes slipping from her embarrassed cheeks to her heaving chest. She almost thought she saw his nostrils flare, eyes darkening imperceptibly; it frightened Sansa so much that she took off just as he was about to reach for her. She ran away like she always did from everything, leaving him to stare after her in his dripping nakedness. 

*** 

Sansa acted as if that little incident had never occurred, avoiding staring Lord Bolton in the eyes, hoping he would gather that her meekness was a sign of apology for her intrusion on his privacy. But she found his stare was still able to make goosebumps break out all over her flesh; in fear, in anticipation, the gods only knew. 

'Lady Sansa' one of his lordship's squires sidled up by her, a young lad who looked far too green to be exposed to such wreckage of mail and armour. _He looks as old as Bran._ 'We're coming up to Winterfell now, my lady. Lord Bolton bids you to join him at the front of the march, if you would please' 

_I dont want to be any where near your lord at the moment._ But Sansa couldn't keep ignoring his invites at riding by him, they would march onto her ancestral home; the Lord’s ward had to take up the lead. 'I'm on my way' she nodded to the squire. 

At the first sight of Winterfell in what almost felt like a lifetime, Sansa couldn't help the sob catching in her throat. But she stopped it, she would not be shown off to her home as a slobbering mess of a simpleton girl. She felt Lord Bolton at her side, his eyes on her again. She met his gaze steadily, even if she knew how red her eyes were, welling with unshed tears. 

'It's still there' she ground out between clenched teeth. 

He nodded, glance bouncing off her towards her hands as they tightly clutched her horse's reins. 'My bastard took good care of it' 

At that moment she felt all the exhaustion from this long march weigh down on her; she felt the ache in her thighs at riding so much, she felt the bruises and cuts from Joffrey almost seep out blood and pus again, she felt so tired. It was almost as if she was a child again, back when her father was alive. They would be out riding all day with her brothers and sister, and suddenly her tiredness would cause her to fall into her father's fur covered arms as she murmured incoherently a request to be carried to her room. She almost wanted to fall into Lord Bolton's arms, she wanted to forget his treachery; to only remember how he had held her in comfort after her nightmare, and pretend like he cared about her wellbeing because she was simply his young, tired ward. Glancing up at his fierce face, she thought of how silly she still was; still dreaming about men who would come along and save her as she fell into their arms. 

If she were to ever fall into Lord Bolton's arms, it would only be for him to snap her into two. Or flay her. 

Sansa doesn't sag in her seat for her father to pick her up, she sits up straight, her bones heaving and sighing with pain as she makes her way home.


	6. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last night's episode was..brutal to say the least. still not over it. AND I'M ALSO STILL NOT OVER ALL YOUR COMMENTS x you guys really are the best.  
> Things are heating up between these two, but I would like to insert some "plot" if you dont mind. Sansa has to prove she's changed into a true Northern woman to Roose somehow; it's like a mating call ;) 
> 
> ENJOY

The godswood was unchanged and untouched by time, that Sansa almost felt she would find her lord father under the weirwood tree sharpening his sword. But Lord Eddard Stark was dead, Sansa remembered how his head rolled off his shoulders after Ser Payne dealt the fatal blow. Sometimes, she would still feel the throbbing pain of the side of her head smacking against the ground when she had fainted. Sansa thought that the throbbing would never leave her alone; always there, always reminding her. She sat under the tree and shut her eyes for a moment. She was home, finally home. Without her family or friends, but she was far away from the Lannisters; shouldn't she be glad for that?

She felt like she was being watched, her eyes shot open to find Lord Bolton standing all the way across the clearing. How long had he been standing there?

_Repaying your insolence._ 'My lord' she stood up to curtsy, eyes glued to her felt boots. 

'I was looking for you' his voice carried itself across to her, as if he didn't want to step any closer than was necessary. 

'I thought I'd come here first' she tentatively marched up to him, 'I couldn't face with how run down the place is, but here it is different’ 

He nodded solemnly at her, glancing around him at her father’s little sanctuary. 'And is this still the same?' 

'Just like I had left it' 

They stood for a few silent moments until she had enough bravery to speak. She kept her gaze trained on Lord Bolton's jawbone. 'I wanted to apologise for my behaviour. I do not usually go around sneaking up on people' 

He didn't ground out his teeth but simply stilled under her apologetic tone. He surprised her by clutching her hand and running his thumb over it in painfully slow strokes. 'I think you should stop apologizing to me, my lady' 

'Because you feel guilty about something in particular?' She prompted him, her blood simmering just a little. She couldn't help herself. 

His eyes flickered down at her steadily, 'because I would be the one apologizing had you not run off before I put my hands on you' 

She was trembling in his grasp, unable to understand his heated words. Was spying punishable with flaying? Would he flay the hand he was so softly fondling at the moment? She slowly extracted her hands from his grasp and coughed out embarrassedly. 'I want to go to my chambers' 

Straightening up, Lord Bolton took a step backwards from her shivering body. 'That is why I was looking for you. I thought it would be respectful to allow you to have your pick of the rooms, and then assign our guests to their respective chambers yourself' 

_Our_? She was his ward now, naturally a part of house Bolton; they were birds of a feather. She allowed him to escort her to the courtyard, with his hand ghosting at the small of her back. 'As you wish, my lord' Sansa couldn't help but feel surprised he would allow her to supervise the sleeping arrangements of his new stronghold. 'But where would you wish to sleep, Lord Bolton?' 

His thumb carefully curved around the end of her spine, causing something to clench in Sansa's insides. 'Wherever you wish me to' 

*** 

She decided that no one would set foot in her parents' chambers, therefore she set up her belongings in it and made her peace with the fact that she would sleep in this haunted place. As for Lord Bolton, she thought it would be disrespectful to simply place him in an inconspicuous guest room; the teachings of Septa Mordane were far too ingrained in her to be discourteous to anyone; even to her family's murderer. Neither could she place him in Robb's chambers; that would be too much, in the end she decided to place him in her own childhood chambers. Sansa had escorted him into her old rooms and almost felt the choking remembrance of childhood in her throat. She watched Lord Bolton glance around the room in curiosity, eyeing her old stitchings with the Septa, and finally landing his gaze on the rows of endless dolls her father used to bring her. She grimaced at the memory of her outright insolence to her lord father's latest gift in King's Landing; when she had dismissed it with a haughty air. Oh how she would trade everything to go back to that moment, and wipe that insolent grimness from her face so that she could smile at her father one last time. She suddenly felt extremely foolish of her younger, stupid self and thundered towards her dolls. 'I'll call the maids now to remove them, how silly they must look--' 

His strong hands were on her forearms in a heart beat, she let him pull her back into his chest. 'Dont. Leave them, my lady, they're yours.' 

'They're not fitting for a lord's chamber' she ground out behind a quivering chin. 

'I dont mind them' he murmured, lips close to her ears, his breath caressing tendrils of her red hair. 

She didn't like how she felt in his arms, pressed up to him so intimately. _Traitor_. She quietly fled from his arms and excused herself to hurry to her new chambers. 

 

*** 

Dinner was a quiet affair, but it was far too suffocating for Sansa. Sitting in the Lord and Lady's chairs at the head of the dining hall, Sansa and Lord Roose looked too uncomfortable. Sansa wondered if Lord Roose was experiencing some guilt, especially with how he had barely touched his food. But then, neither had she touched hers. It all felt wrong; being here felt wrong, surviving her entire family and dining in their home felt wrong. 

'You haven't touched your plate' Lord Bolton pulled her out of her spiraling misery, seeking her gaze out with his pale eyes. Sansa convinced herself that he wasn't concerned with his prisoner's wellbeing, but was simply not thrilled about having another Stark death on his list of murders. 

She tore her gaze away from him, 'Neither have you, my lord' 

'Concerned are we now?' She could feel the smile in his voice but she was tired of keeping up with him, she was tired of being the perfect hostess, the perfect prisoner. She pushed her chair back and he followed suit, standing in cold courtesy as she excused herself. His face was a blank canvas that betrayed nothing away; Sansa almost wished he'd _do_ something. 

She walked through the hallways of Winterfell, not quite ready to call it a night just yet. _I wonder where Theon stumbled upon my brothers? Did they cry out in fear when their fate stared them in the face? Did it hurt too much?_ ofcourse it hurt, everything hurt; Sansa knew that all too well. But atleast they weren't in pain anymore, they didn't walk around like a ghost in their old home carrying the hurt of all their family in their hearts. Sansa felt things all too vividly. 

'Don't you Starks ever learn?' She whipped her head around in the dark hall, she couldn't see anything. But she knew that voice all too well; it made slime slither down her back. 'You really should stop trusting people' 

Suddenly something blunt-edged smacked her in the back of her skull and Sansa felt herself dive into darkness. 

***

The blood in her mouth felt too much like being back in King's Landing. At first she thought she was in the keep’s dim-lit room, with Shae watching over her broodingly, but then it wasn't a featherbed on which rested her frail body, but a hard, cold surface. She stifled her moan of pain, trying to bring herself up on her elbows; her head hurt too much to move and so she opened her eyes to her surroundings. 

She was on the floor in her parents’ room, her room now. A single candle flickered by the table in the corner, her heart nearly stopped when she saw Ramsay relaxed on the chair before her. ‘Hello, sister’ 

Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, with crippling terror. but she wouldn’t let him see it in her eyes. _Your face, Sansa, arrange your face._ she remembered her instructions to herself in king’s landing; does he want her to beg or be silent? _Figure out what he desires_. ‘It really is quite disrespectful of you to treat the Bolton heir so dismissively when I am trying to be civil to you, especially when I had taught the turncloak a good lesson on your behalf’ She glanced around her frantically, she could not face Theon now. But she was all alone with this monster. Heir? He was Lord Bolton's bastard. Sansa cursed the fates for putting her in the paths of delusional men. 

He got up and stalked towards her. ‘On your feet, Stark’ 

Sansa thought it was physically impossible to move because of her terror and throbbing head. But she shouldered through it, do what he wanted and she might be spared. Although that never worked with Joffrey, she still managed to stand up before him, leaning heavily on the bedpost. ‘Yes, my lord?’ 

He was very close to her now, manic gaze pouring over her face, trying to discern what she felt. He must’ve smelt the fear on her, because he threw his head back and cackled. ‘My my, Joffrey did a good number on you, sister’ Something sharp pokes at her abdomen, Sansa realises the Bolton bastard has raised a knife at her, ‘I’m only here to remind you, sweet sister, that although neither the Lannisters nor my father will not touch you, my intentions are quite the opposite’ 

She choked on a sob. _Control, sansa._ She nodded her head imperceptibly, hoping it would make him sheath his dagger. A knock on the door almost sent Sansa to her knees, but Ramsay pushed the dagger further into her. ‘Not a word, yes?’ 

She nodded. ‘Come in’ Ramsay declared, finally sheathing his dagger gleefully. The triumphant smile washed off his face as the imposing figure of his father filled the doorway. 

‘Ramsay’ Lord Bolton has a furrowed expression on his face, eyes flitting between Sansa and his bastard. ‘I thought I made myself clear. You are not to disturb my ward’ 

Sansa shifted her gaze away from both men. She was trapped again, how foolish of her to think she had escaped from Joffrey’s clutches. She had only exchanged one prison for another. 

Ramsay turned quiet and bashful at his father’s tone, ‘Ofcourse, my lord. But as I was retiring, I noticed my poor sister’s predicament and decided to assist her in returning to her room’ 

A palpable silence filled the room, Sansa thought they had both finally left when her lord finally addressed her. ‘Lady Sansa’ 

She surprised herself by meeting Lord Bolton’s direct and searching gaze. ‘Lord Snow was most helpful, my lord. I was tired’ 

Lord Bolton looked both disappointed and bored, but his gaze shifted towards Ramsay in distaste, ‘Out of her room now, bastard’

Ramsay was no longer smiling; his triumph was short lived, and Sansa found herself tucking this important exchange somewhere inside her mind; for a rainy day. The Bastard gives her one last look, ‘Good night, sister’ 

Once he had left the room, she must have visibly sagged against the bedpost for Lord Bolton shut the door behind him and moved to stand before her. ‘What happened, lady Sansa?’ 

_I am not a lady_ , she wanted to scream at him. Sansa thought that she had finally understood how The Hound must’ve felt, being taunted of his title as a knight, when he knew otherwise. Her head began to mull over the previous exchange between father and bastard, ‘My lord?’ 

‘Why was he in your chambers?’ She knew he was grinding his teeth in impatience, and yet his drawl sounded so disinterested; she was at such odds with this Northman. 

She could expose Ramsay’s threat and let Lord Bolton deal with it on her behalf, but that was foolish. He didn’t even falter at finding him in her rooms; she knew her father would’ve rained terror on the castle if he had found an unannounced man in her room. But Lord Bolton was not Eddard Stark, he was Ramsay’s father, would he truly side by her to end this terrorizing mission his bastard was on? _he ran a dagger through your brother_. ‘I was feeling wan. Lord Snow helped me to my chambers’ she repeated solemnly.

He pushed her chin up to lock gazes with her, grey eyes seeking hers. But she was prepared, Joffrey’s steel-faced doll was in place. ‘If my bastard is causing you any inconvenience you will inform me, yes?’ 

Sansa wondered if being attacked in a dark hallway constituted as inconvenience, glancing at the spot of blood where she had laid on the floor, ‘ofcourse, my lord’ 

She thought she felt his thumb brush up against her lower-lip momentarily, but she couldn't be sure. The Lord of the Dreadfort stalked out of her chamber, barking an order over his back, ‘Lock your door’ 

She did. Sansa stripped off her furs and laces, extinguished the candlelight, and cleaned the blood from her parents’ bedroom floor. When she finally finished, Sansa realized she hadn’t asked Lord Bolton why he had come to her rooms so late in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay, Ramsay, what will she do with you?


	7. transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Roose fall into their new routines at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More "plot" setting up, and a little Bolton possessiveness ;) 
> 
> sending my love to you all, your comments and analyses encourage me so much!

She barely slept. Instead, she had sat upright in bed, staring at the door until she had almost burnt a hole through it. Locking the door felt insufficient, the Bolton horde could come at her from anywhere; climb atop her while she slept and tear her open. She was beyond exhausted, the previous days’ travel had tired her to her bones, and yet she couldn’t surrender to sleep. She had to climb out of this hole Ramsay had buried her in. 

Relying on Lord Bolton to solve this problem was out of the question. But she couldn't bare to relive the experience of being someone’s plaything; her patched up corpse had amused Joffrey and his kingsguard all too much. She couldn't, _mustn’t_ , surrender. She was in the North now, her family’s strength pulsated through this wall. But she had to be shrewd about her plan; Cersei and Littlefinger’s words coursed through her mind. 

She dressed herself in the morning in grey stark robes, plaited her hair in northern fashion— no more southern styles, no more pretending at being something she was not. Winterfell was quiet so early in the day–– no Arya roaring at Bran and Jon, no Robb heatedly exchanging a story with Father, nor was her mother on her way to oversee the servants for a new day.

Arriving at the dining hall, she was surprised to find Lord Bolton perched over scrolls with breakfast decked out before him. He didnt sense her until she stood infront of him, on the other side of the table and stared. 

When he tore his gaze away from his work to look up at her, Sansa realised that he hadn’t slept either— probably hadn’t even left the dining hall. ‘Good morning, my lord’ 

He nodded solemnly, eyes following her as she took her seat beside him. She reached for the freshly baked bread and quietly nibbled on it, feeling her stomach growl in response. When was the last time she had eaten? 

Lord Bolton continued to watch her until she had met his gaze. His grey orbs had a storm brewing underneath it, and Sansa had no inclination to ask what was the matter. ‘Did you sleep well, my lord?’

He took a few moments to reply, ‘did you, my lady Stark?’ 

She wanted to smile ironically at the new ruse he employed against her; a question foiled by a question. Instead, she shifted her gaze elsewhere, choosing not to answer. He didn’t push her. ‘I’ve been revising Winterfell’s supply stock’ he broached a new subject surprisingly, ‘it seems Ramsay has been a blubbering fool. What is the point of capturing a stronghold if you waste all its resources’ 

She noticed the growing anger in his tone, that was new. ‘Supplies are essential for the coming winter’ she nodded in agreement, ‘with the war of the five kings raging, I doubt any of my father’s men had paid their tithe for quite a while’ 

She _felt_ , rather than saw, Lord Bolton still. When she glanced up at him curiously, he was staring at her in a strange manner as if she had grew another head. 

‘Well then’ he murmured softly, ‘we better call the Maester for his ravens’ 

And then Roose Bolton’s lips tugged at one side. 

 

*** 

The next few days rushed in a flurry, Ramsay was thankfully sent to the Dreadfort to secure control, and bring supplies once his father had calculated what would be needed to survive the coming winter huddled in Winterfell. And so, Sansa was allowed a respite from constantly looking behind her back for Ramsay and his dagger in the dark. The nightmares, on the other hand, were more potent than ever— it was almost as if the Stark spirits did not wish her to rest easy, even in her ancestry home. Every night she woke up screaming, her palm against her chest as if to ease the erratic heart beating, with tears streaming down her face. And every morning Lord Bolton would take one look at her black-eyed expression, and demand, in his soft-spoken, cold tone, the maester to fetch the poppy-seed concoction he had requested. 

Nothing helped her sleep. The best Sansa could do was to distract herself in her waking hours, try to _live_ until the dreams came for her at night. The first few days, she walked the grounds of Winterfell; exploring the forgotten rooms, reminiscing over the memorabilia of her family, and sitting in the godswood. However, this seemed to feed her nightmares with even more terrifying material. She decided to shut off all unused rooms, and stood instructing her servants to carry all her family’s belongings into those closed off quarters. 

Afterwards, her activities began to expand outside the sheltered walls of the castle. Sansa rode her mare and checked on Winterfell’s crops, the mill, its farmers and tenants; the people solemnly walked past her, or addressed her when spoken to. She must’ve represented a ghost tale to them; a name that history had washed from its annals. To others, she must’ve represented the Lannister and Bolton menace; outsiders who had tarnished the good memory of the North. But she was Sansa Stark, she tried to remind herself whenever she received an ill-wished gaze. On one of the return journeys from her rounds, she found Lord Bolton waiting for her inside the stable. By taking in the defensive stance he was in, leather jerkin spread tight over his chest with his arms crossed, brows furrowed with his grey gaze locked on her, Sansa knew she was in trouble. 

He hadn’t moved as she dismounted her mare. He hadn’t spoken as she removed the reins and saddle, and escorted the steed into his place. Finally, she stood infront of him like a petulant child— scared of his silence, but also dreading that this was something he would take away from her. 

His gaze wandered over her muddied dress, her skirts in disarray, and the way her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. ‘You enjoy these rides?’

‘I’m overseeing the land, my lord. Keeping count of our stocks and acknowledging the smallfolk so we could fortify—‘ he cuts her rushed prattling off with a raised finger. 

‘—Lady Sansa, do you enjoy these rides?’   
She stuttered, ‘Y-yes’ 

‘Take men with you next time’ he ordered, but his eyes have strayed elsewhere, already losing interest, so she couldn’t read him— not that his eyes had ever revealed anything to her. ‘It's not safe around the smallfolk yet, loyalties are being tested in the North’ 

She mulled over his words, rubbing the back of her hand against her sweaty forehead. Lord Bolton follows the gesture with his indiscernible flashing gaze. ‘Because of your Bolton forces camped in Winterfell?’ 

‘ _Our_ Bolton forces’ he corrected testily, ‘you have the name of the Starks, but you belong to house Bolton now, Lady Sansa’ 

She suddenly wished to be far away from him, just to escape the unexplainable tone and stares he was giving her. At King’s Landing, it was easy to see what the people there wanted of her— even if she had realised it too late. Cersei wanted her to prostrate herself before the Lannister might. Joffrey wanted her frightened tears, coupled with her damsel in distress allure. Littlefinger wanted her in a way, which Shae had explained to her over the light of a bedside candle, that shocked Sansa. Sandor wanted her to sing and call him a knight even if deep-down he knew his own truth. Even the courtiers were easy to discern, with their double scheming and false smiles. But Lord Bolton? Sansa could never tell if he was pleased with her or absolutely disinterested. With his eyes dilated like that, and his stance tensed, Sansa felt herself shrink in response to something primal inside her she could not understand. 

‘May I excuse myself, my lord?’ She prompted him. 

‘Will you take men with you tomorrow?’ She almost smiled. 

‘Ofcourse’ As if she had a choice to say no. The lord nodded, and let her march infront of him back to the castle. 

*** 

The next morning over breakfast, Lord Bolton pushed their breakfast plates aside and unfolded documents and maps before his ward. Sansa stared up at him with eyes as wide as saucers. 

‘If you’re overseeing the supplies physically, you might as well be acquainted with the numbers’ he murmured, pulling her chair with ease closer besides him until his firm side pressed against hers. ‘As my ward, you have much to learn’ 

Sansa ignored how the men and women of the court, dining in the hall, watched as their Lord instructed her on how to read reports. Would her father approve of her now? She had never listened to his speeches of how to rule in the Stark name, letting Jon and Robb bear it instead of her. Sansa could imagine her headless father visiting her in her dreams tonight, _Did we all have to die for you to embrace your Northern self, Sansa?_ , he would wail at her, _Is the traitor a better tutor than your own flesh and blood?_

Sansa pushed her rancid thoughts to the back of her mind, and instead focused on the strict, methodological instruction of the Lord of the Dreadfort.


	8. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose and Sansa are hard at their lessons. A ride through Winterfell eases the air between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so great x here's a long one, enjoy!

It was the second time that evening for Lord Bolton to ask the servants to light more candles. Her numbers were rudimentary at best, her education at Winterfell had catered towards Septa approved lessons such as sewing, basic reading and writing, and playing an instrument. Robb had encouraged her once to join his lessons with father, but she had rolled her eyes at him and sought out Jeyne Poole’s company instead. _A good deal those lessons served Robb_ , she stilled at the bitterness in her thoughts. 

Nevertheless, her aversion to proper education had become her biggest regret as she watched Lord Bolton prepare another exercise for to practice her sums. He had forsaken his leather jerkin, and instead wore a loose fitted black linen-shirt over his breeches. 

Sansa found her gaze pouring over the details of lord Bolton as he concentrated on scribbling her exercise. To Sansa, the Northman had never looked dishevelled or in disarray, but staring at him, she realised the exhaustion of the last few days of settling in Winterfell had begun to take its toll on him. Sansa let eyes trail along the darkness under his eyes, to the peppered stubble she had found herself staring at more and more everyday, and finally settled on the trail of chest hair exposed by the looseness of his shirt. It baffled her why she’d been scrutinizing her guardian lately. At the dining table, her eyes would linger on the calculating way he glanced around the hall once he had finished his meal— till his direct gaze fell on her, she would then focus on her plate again, hoping her cheeks were not as red as she felt them to be. During her morning walks along the ground, She still sought him out from the side of her eyes, as he talked with the men in the courtyard. Sansa recalled how he looked under his furs and jerkin, with the water pouring down his exposed brawny chest, to his unlaced breeches. She felt her head getting muddled. Lord Bolton was a handsome man, she realized, dumb-struck by her train of thoughts. 

_Handsome with your family’s blood on his hands?_ She was so tired of her thoughts, of her strange and unexplainable feelings, of not being sent off to bed. 

She noticed that she had been staring for too long, because Lord Bolton had returned her inquisitive gaze with his grey ones. She felt her face turn red in such speed and potency, forcing her to maintain eye contact otherwise he would see right through her. ‘Are you paying attention?’ 

She nodded. His face was impassive, but she had started to pick up on the small ticks that revealed what he might be thinking. And the way his eyes flashed imperceptibly, lingering on her face, told Sansa that something _interested_ him. He finally broke their locked eye contact, and grunted at her silence, ‘work on this’ 

He placed the parchment towards her along with a quill, leant back in his seat and shut his eyes. Groaning inwardly, Sansa picked up the quill and began working on her numbers. She sneaked glances at the shut-eyed Bolton, was he asleep? She couldn’t tell. But when her stomach made a horrendously loud sound, he leaned forward and pushed the plate of cheese and dried figs infront of her, all without opening his eyes. ‘Eat’ 

She was mortified with embarrassment but she nibbled on a slice of cheese as she worked. The numbers looked like a foreign language to her, earlier in their lessons she had her wits about her; she wasn’t asleep, or tired, or hungry. But glancing at the already dwindling candle light beside her elbow, Sansa knew that she couldn’t possibly answer anything right. She shifted in her seat excessively, stained her fingers with ink because of her sluggish movements, ate from the plate before her messily. 

‘Are you anywhere near finished?’ He drawled, almost sleepily. 

Sansa glanced at the parchment before her, stained with ink and her sticky fig fingers. Gods, he was going to flay her alive. ‘No, my lord’ 

He opened his eyes, red and blurry with exhaustion no doubt. He leaned forward, his breath so close that she felt it move tendrils of hair near her ear. She found herself wondering what the Lord of the Dreadfort smelt like, _sandalwood and ice_ , she decided. 

Sansa waited for him to reprimand her sloppy work, and send her packing to bed. But he caught her gaze in challenge and reclined back to his previous position. _I’m tired!_ she wanted to scream. ‘We’ll sit here all night until you finish this’ 

His tone almost sounded like a challenge. For her to actually finish? Sansa returned to fidgeting and groaning like a child. A few useless moments passed, and she still hadn’t pressed the quill to the parchment at all. 

Lord Bolton’s temper got the better of him eventually, if his actions constituted anything as losing his well-accustomed cool. But he grabbed Sansa by the jaw and turned her to look at him; his fingers almost digging into her inflamed cheeks. Sansa was terrified, yet also relieved that finally Lord Bolton would show his true colours after all this false courtesy. But when he brought her face on level with his, she didn’t see any aggressive or violent intent in his eyes. Only a challenge. 

‘You could’ve ended this anytime you wanted to, but you don’t speak, Sansa’ His voice was steely, ‘Speak, girl. I won’t harm you for it’ 

It took her a moment to register what he was asking of her. ‘I-I dont know what—’ 

‘—No’ he pulled on her jaw even harder, she was a few inches away from his face now. His nostrils flared in response to her breathy whimper. ‘Tell me what you want at this specific moment’ 

_I want to be with my family. I want them all to be alive and with me. I want the Lannisters dead. I want Theon dead. I want you away from me, Lord Bolton. But I want to know why you look at me like that. I want to know what to feel towards you. I dont want to be so lonely._

‘I dont want to do anymore exercises this evening’ She balked, but when his grip loosened on her cheeks, she visibly relaxed. 

‘Good’ He murmured, his hand resting against her cheek now, ‘what else?’ 

She shuddered out a breath and hoped for the best, ‘I want to sleep’ 

He let go of her, but not before rubbing his thumb against an ink stain by the side of her mouth. Sansa felt goosebumps spread like wildfire across her flesh at the contact, she glanced away from the expression on Lord Bolton’s face. ‘Simple demands, my lady’ 

He almost sounded disappointed with her, as he always did. ‘But off you go, to bed. We’ll take up your lessons tomorrow’ 

Sansa almost rolled her eyes, almost. She bid her lord goodnight and headed towards the solar’s door.  
‘lock your door’ his daily reminder always chilled her. 

*** 

 

At breakfast the next morning, she found Lord Bolton with the same haggard expression. For a concerned moment Sansa thought her night terrors were a nuisance to his sleep; her screams resounding over the walls of Winterfell like a ghost. But surely he would say something? Instead, she placated herself by believing that it was exhaustion from rebuilding Winterfell that was affecting him. They ate breakfast in silence, the lord did not even bid her a good morning, but simply avoided all conversation–– it was a strange morning. She furtively glanced between him and her plate, unable to fathom whether he was displeased with her behavior last night or not. 

‘I’m nursing a headache, my lady’ He finally uttered, as if reading her mind, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes tiredly. ‘Forgive my poor company this morning’ 

‘I-is it yesterday’s lessons?’ She wondered. 

His eyes focused on her in what sounded like amusement, ‘Do you find them so abhorrent?’  
‘No!’ she quickly amended. Was he mocking her? she couldn’t tell. ‘I am tired too, is what I wanted to say’ 

Lord Bolton runs his gaze over her frame–– taking in the tousled auburn curls splayed across her shoulders and the white paleness of her face. As if making up his mind, he ventured to ask, ‘Have your nightmares gotten worse?’ 

The question chilled her. So he could hear her screams. ‘I think–‘ she shuddered out a shaky breath, ‘I think it's because I’m back here’ 

‘Would you tell me what they are, if I asked you?’  
‘My dreams?’ He nodded.  
‘No’ 

He doesn’t push for more, instead Lord Bolton wiped his mouth clean with a linen and fixed her with a determined expression. ‘Will you be riding today?’ 

‘Yes’ she murmured, ‘unless your lordship thinks otherwise’ 

‘My lordship’ he got up from his seat and fastened his furs around his broad shoulders, ‘is thinking of joining you. I’ve grown tired of staying indoors, supervising men and ledgers.’ 

Sansa raised one eyebrow in surprise, ‘as you wish, my lord’ 

When he pulled out her chair, she found him already placing her own furs around her shoulders, Sansa held her breath as Lord Bolton stood before her with his fingers fastening her robe below her neck. ‘Lets ride beyond Winterfell’s walls, shall we?’

‘I thought you said the land was dangerous still?’ He finished the knot by her throat, but remained stock-still before her. She glanced up at his expression, ‘No one will touch you’ 

*** 

When they rode out through the gates, Winterfell was slowly being roused by bustle of the small folk and soldiers rebuilding and fortifying its walls. Sansa’s entire demeanor had shifted once she saw the large expanse of land before her; green, lush, and ice-cold. The ride made her breathing easier, her paleness replaced by a red-flush of excitement–– Lord Bolton spurred their mares to unimaginable speeds. They finally slowed down once they had reached the moors, Lord Bolton sidled up his horse next to Sansa's; letting the creatures munch on the tufts of grass. 

_I can breathe_ , Sansa realized, her throat clogged up with repressed emotions. She used to hate riding; being goaded by Arya and Jon to pick up speed, falling off her horse and yelling at Robb to help her, her hair getting messed up from the winds after she had tried to tame it into an intricate Southern style. Gods, she was silly. But now, glancing at the Northern lands, _her_ lands, Sansa thought she could never bear to part with it again. 

‘What is on your mind?’ His voice rumbled in his chest beside her, reminding her of his presence. 

‘I’m wondering whether you know where we are’ 

‘Ofcourse I know, girl, I’ve lived in the North all––‘ 

Sansa cut him off by leveling him with a faraway gaze in her eyes, ‘this here was where we had spoken to each other for the first time’ 

That silenced him. Lord Bolton’s face cleared of all expressions, but looked almost pensive, as if he was grasping for the memory she evoked. ‘I had come for business with Lord Stark’ 

She nodded, warming up at the memory. ‘Yes, Arya and Jon had stolen my book of songs, they dared me to look for it amongst the moors. When I rode up, you were already there; scolding me for riding so far from the castle walls’ 

Recognition registered in his expression and his mouth tugged up sideways in response, ‘I was tired of negotiations with your stubborn father, I came out here for a respite, and you rode onto my peace weeping’ 

 

Sansa found herself smiling up at Lord Bolton. She remembered sobbing angrily as she rode up to the moors, the cold wind biting into her bones and freezing the tears on her cheeks; and adding to a horror-filled day, she finds one of her Father’s lords sitting there amongst the moors, brooding. Lord Bolton with his depthless, dead-pan gaze, a man who had recently lost his only son, Domeric. Her mother had strictly instructed her children not to rouse the grieving Lord’s ire, and to avoid being in his presence at all costs. And there Sansa was, walking in on his privacy. 

 

‘I thought I was going to die, Mother had told us not to disturb you’ she chuckled at the memory of her shivering under his disinterested gaze. 

‘What for?’ 

‘She said you were grieving’ Sansa murmured soberly, eyeing Lord Bolton’s expression, ‘for Domeric’ 

He didn’t respond, nor look at her; only glanced away. ‘How old were you then?’

‘Thirteen summers, I believe’ He sniggered at that. 

‘A child’ He stared back at her. 

She frowned, ’Not anymore’ 

‘You think so, my lady?’ She could now discern the tone he used when he was taunting her. 

When he received no answer, he grunted at her. ‘Did you find the book then?’ 

She shook her head. ‘I remember you scolding me, and then escorted me back home without giving me a chance to look for it. I didn’t speak to Arya or Jon for days’ 

‘If I was Lord Eddard, I wouldn’t let you saunter alone in the wilderness’ He clippingly replied, as if he was defending his actions. Sansa dimpled at that. 

They sat there for a while, watching the horizon and letting their tiredness sag against their mares. The past few days have been exhausting, be it fortifying the new castle, or Lord Bolton’s unending lessons that extended far into the night, coupled with her night terrors that obviously kept the both of them awake. This peaceful moment seeped into their bones. 

‘Any particular songs that you liked?’ If he asked her to sing something, Sansa would scream. She remembered the strange encounter with the Hound– the smell of wildfire alarming in her small bedroom, Sandor Clegane's rabid fear. But she indulged the lord’s inquiry anyways, ‘Yes, my lord, all the songs about Aemon the Dragonknight’ 

She watched him drag his gaze from the scene before them, to her expectant face with an expression on his face that almost said _well, ofcourse_. 

‘Jeyne Poole and I used to dream of going tourneys so that we would be crowned queens by a mysterious knight who loved us from afar, like Queen Naerys’ She remembered Jeyne again, her sweet hopeful friend. _What have they done to you?_ Sansa decided that she would ask Lord Bolton if it was possible to inquire about her old childhood friend. 

Lord Bolton’s voice lowered, Sansa found herself leaning towards him. ‘Do you still love those tales?’ 

The question took her off guard, but she had been thinking of it lately. Weighing her dreams and hopes of pure love and savior knights with the jarring situation of her reality. There were no more tourneys, no more Jeynes, no more queens of the tourney, and there was no mysterious knight to seek her out. And yet she loved them, even after all that she had been through. 

She took a deep breath and stared at her hands. ‘I know what is struggle now. I used to ignore those feelings in these tales, but I know what it is to face them now. The dragonknight loved Naerys, and yet he struggled because of that love. To see her in another man’s arms, to watch her bear another man’s child, to be in her constant presence and yet unable to have her for himself.’ Sansa shook her head miserably at her words, ‘I dont believe in the tales now, but I have come to see the darkness of craving something and not being able to have it’ 

When she looked up, Lord Bolton was looking at her in such intensity that a flush darkened her cheeks. He ran his gaze over the blood rushing up her neck, and with apparent difficulty glanced away, rubbing his face with his gloved hand. ‘Do you only think about fables and songs so intently, my lady?’ 

This was her opportunity. ‘Actually, my lord. I’ve lately been preoccupied with something’ She glanced up at him from below her blond lashes, ‘I was wondering if you would indulge..this lesson, if you will’ 

He didn’t look back at her, but he nodded his acquiescence. ‘I want to know why my brother Robb would have ruined the North’ 

His jaw twitched. Lord Bolton twisted in his saddle to scrutinize Sansa fully, ‘What?’ 

She demurred at the incredulity in his voice. Sansa thought she must’ve been the first person to have heard this tone, it excited her. ‘You said what you did to my mother and brother was a necessity, pretend that this is a lesson. Tell me why it is so’ 

She gave him a moment for her words to sink in. His face was impassive again, a blank canvas that began to discredit her previous gloating at unlocking the Lord of the Dreadfort. The depthless gaze before her engulfed Sansa into a dangerous sea of uncertainty and speculation— it made her blood quicken. 

‘I can explain the decision to you’ He murmured quietly, ‘but before that, I would have to teach you everything there is about the North, Sansa. It has to be understood in the large scheme of things’ 

Sansa nodded vigorously at this parley. ‘I’m willing. I-I need to understand, my lord. Spending my life in grief will not let me be alive as everyone wishes me to’ 

‘Do you wish to live?’ He prompted her, eyes locking in on her quivering lips, ‘Is this what you truly want? Speak the truth, Sansa’ 

She nodded, wishing he would look her in the eyes for the first time since she had met him. ‘I wish to live. I am the last Stark and I _need_ to live. I don’t know if you will sell me to the Lannisters like you did my brother, but for now, I see the usefulness of your lessons, and this is what I truly want, to live what remaining days you would allow me, by your lordship’s side, as your ward’ 

‘As my ward’ Lord Bolton repeated in a mocking tone, almost to himself, glancing back at the horizon pensively. ‘You don’t trust me, my lady?’ 

_No_. ‘Will you teach me?’ 

He smirks at her deflection of his question. ‘If you’ll have me’ 

Sansa reined in her mare, blushing and feeling the previous tightness in her chest slowly evaporate. ‘Then we better head back home, my lord’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all hate math too, Sansa, its ok. It's just none of us had Roose as our tutor, unfortunately.


	9. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares for revelations, and a feast.

The cold air bit into her flesh, but Sansa lay back on the snowbed beneath the godswood’s tree. She had woken up that morning without any of the urges to eat or converse with the inhabitants of Winterfell, instead she had changed into a blue gown of her mother’s and hurried towards the godswood. It had been an exhausting week, the finishing touches to the castle had been set and the Bolton’s Winterfell was finally ready for the new Warden’s reign. Lord Bolton had been working hard during the day to ensure all was on the right track, and during the night he would pull out her father’s map of the North, and begin Sansa’s lessons. 

Her mind was a whirlwind when he spoke. Sansa felt as if a whole new world had revealed itself to her, and for the first time in a very long while she was given a choice to make. At King’s Landing, Sansa’s sole motivation was self-preservation— but even that was a dubious decision. She had suffered the most abhorrent treatment at the hands of the Lannisters, only so she would not die like the rest of her family. But as she sat in Lord Bolton’s solar, letting his deep voice wrap itself around her, pulling her into the intricacies of North alliances, bannermen, and motivations, Sansa found herself deciding that instead of hoping not to die like the rest of her family, she would try to _live_ like they had not been able to. 

Lord Bolton was relentless; quizzing her on the names of all the houses of the North, the alliances between each Lord and Lady, and the resources available. He would not allow her respite unless she had answered him correctly— until she began to connect the dots on her own through critical thinking. She absorbed everything Lord Bolton gave her, she borrowed books from the Maester’s private library, she escaped sleep by reading until her eyes burned and watered. Sansa was shaping herself, thanks to Lord Bolton, into a true Stark; but one that would live, not because of honour and duty, but because she would _plan_ every step ahead for herself from now on. 

Roose Bolton was impressed with her, she could clearly discern the admiration he bestowed upon her when she had done the exercises he had conjured for her. As she sat in his solar scribbling his instructions and points, Sansa would sometimes feel his hands on her–– a casual hand resting upon her shoulder, fingers pulling an auburn curl away from her face, and tucking it behind her ear so matter of factly, brushing the ink stains from her skin with his thumb. She never stilled under his touch, her reactions to these occasional and haphazard gestures were only a deep blush and no acknowledgement on her part. Sometimes, she wondered whether the Lord did them on purpose to rile her for a reaction. 

_But what did he expect me to do?_

This morning, she was not interested in any of it. The inevitable was to happen tonight, Lord Bolton was advised by his council to have a feast in celebration of his new position as well as the rebuilding of Winterfell. In his solar last night, He had snaked the quill out of Sansa’s hands and willed her to look up at him. 

‘Do you enjoy feasts?’ His gaze was quite direct, and yet almost lethargic in how it stilled over every inch of Sansa. 

She straightened up in her seat under his inspecting eyes. ‘I used to. Although I wouldn’t have taken your lordship for one to enjoy festivities’ 

‘The feast is but a cover’ Lord Bolton murmured, slowly putting her quill back onto its ink station. ‘Its a ploy to gather all Northern lords under one roof’ 

_To flay them?_ Sansa’s gaze lit up at his words, ‘to weed out the disloyal from your new subjects’ 

He grunted in approval, making a certain warmth seep into Sansa’s abdomen. ‘Very good, Sansa. New pledges will be made, and—‘ he gave her an appreciative glance before returning his gaze to the brazier, ‘—unpaid tithes will be accounted for’ 

She blinked back at him. He listened to her. All the unpaid tithes to her brother that she had mentioned before; Lord Bolton was taking her words into account. She felt almost a tightening in her throat. ‘That would be wise, my lord’ 

He disregarded her compliment though, as he deflected it with a question. ‘You said you dont enjoy feasts anymore, but when you did, what did you like best?’ 

The memory of her childhood fascination with the feasts in Winterfell came back to her in waves. ‘Lemon cakes, I’ve always loved those. The dancing, and oh, watching the lords and ladies converse in their finery. Jeyne and I used to to escape my mother’s presence just so we would stay up a bit more’ He watched her dimple at the memories. 

‘You’re a lady now, no one will forbid you from enjoying the feast’ 

She stilled, he expected her to attend? All the Northern lords who had forgotten Robb just like that? Stark bannermen for years, forgetting their king and already fanning themselves around the new one? Sansa thought she couldn’t bear it. 

Taking one glance at her expression, Lord Bolton could see right through her, Sansa thought. ‘I did not believe my presence would be required, I would much better prefer to remain in my rooms’ 

Lord Bolton remained deadly quiet, so still and tensed beside her as if he would snap at any moment. Sansa thought he was a trapped beast in a cage, marching up and down his walled enclosure. With something akin to suppressed rage, he pulled Sansa’s chair so that she would be facing him, her knees slamming against his wooden chair. 

‘After all these lessons—‘ he held her cheeks in his callused hand, she trembled in response to his low whispering, ‘—you have the opportunity to witness the ways through which new alliances are forged.’ 

He was tempting her, Sansa realised, trying to pique the scholastic interest she had exhibited as his pupil; but now when she was faced with putting herself amongst those lords and ladies, to play the game, Sansa could only imagine Cersei’s mocking sneer if she saw her now.

‘I can't’ she found difficulty talking with the sharp hold he had on her, ‘I can't face all these men who had simply forgotten my brother, my family. I dont want to go, my lord’ 

Lord Bolton’s pale eyes flashed at her in dismay. She felt disappointed with herself as well, Sansa thought she had gained more ground over the weeks; but how could she have thought to forget her past like that? To forget that the man caressing her cheeks, who she had surprisingly began to feel the need to impress, had murdered her family in cold blood and taken their home. The men who would be feasting in her family’s halls were all turncloaks just as well. 

She placed her hand on his, she sought his pale gaze with her own muddled blue one. ‘Please, my lord’ 

‘You’re my ward’ he wouldn’t show his anger, but Sansa could feel the blood pulsating under her touch. ‘I expect you to be by my side’ 

‘Dont force me to’ She disentangled herself from his grip and stood up, pushing away from his stalking towards her. 

Lord Bolton strode towards her retreating figure until he had Sansa pressed up against the door, their bodies grazed against each other. He stared her down until Sansa felt the breath getting stuck in her throat. ‘Get out’ 

‘My lord?’ She blinked up at him. 

‘Get out’ And yet it took him a few more heartbeats before he stepped away from her. He reached for the door, and stood there waiting for her to leave. 

Lying in the cold snowbed the morning after, Sansa relived the shame of feeling that she had let him down, and the strange offended feeling she had at being dismissed. The lord of house Bolton, had flayed and killed men who had been less insolent than Sansa, and yet he hadn’t expressed any emotions towards her. She half-expected him to grab her by the hair and shake her into obedience, but he just...let her leave. Sansa welcomed the bite of the cold, anything to make her feel alive when Lord Bolton had spurned her so coldly and without feeling. 

When she finally straightened into a seated position, she found Lord Bolton standing quietly at the end of the godswood again. She inhaled sharply at the surprise, but his face was a mask of utter courtesy and uninterest. 

Sansa watched him come up to her, and then sit down on his haunches before her. Holding her breath, Sansa shivered as she watched Lord Bolton watch her. She wanted to apologise, and to have him pacify here and draw her out into his good graces again; but she was being foolish. His eyes trailed from her snow-peppered hair, to the thin dress she wore, back to her trembling blue lips. When he raised his hand towards her, Sansa flinched momentarily before feeling his caress on her cheek. She sat quietly, eyes locked with Lord Bolton as he dusted the white snow from her face, her lashes, atop her nose, and from her hair. Her breathing was getting shallower from the slow way his fingers lingered on her now feverish skin. Lord Bolton himself seemed to be breathing heavier, his nostrils flared, and eyes dilated in concentration. 

‘Lord?’ she murmured breathlessly. 

Her voice seemed to have woken him from whatever spell he was bound to. Slowly he rested his hands on his knees and stared intently at Sansa. ‘Is this your way of avoiding the affair tonight? Freezing yourself to death?’ 

‘No’   
‘Then go to your rooms, Lady Sansa, and stay warm. I won’t force you to go’ her eyes widened at that. 

She bit her lip in despair. Was this him giving her the choice? Or playing with her until she walked into a trap? She worried her lower lip painfully as thoughts ran through her mind. Lord Bolton rubbed his thumb against her lower lip and stopped her, ‘Don’t think. You will not be expected to attend tonight.’ 

As he helped her to her feet, wrapping his fur around her Tully blue dress, Sansa decided to believe him. 

*** 

Sansa stood hidden in the crevices of Winterfell’s parapets, watching Lord Bolton receiving the Northern lords in the castle courtyard. He stood tall in his dark furs, the sand-coloured beard he had been growing for the past few days was neatly trimmed, his longsword shone by his hip. She could not clearly see his expression but Sansa knew his mind was whirring; taking in the men and women prostrating themselves before the new Warden. Momentarily, she was overwhelmed with the need to go stand beside him, and welcome the visitors as part of his household, as his ward. But was she ready? She glanced away from his face, she hated how hesitant she felt. 

Even Ramsay was present, standing a few steps behind Lord Bolton next to the soldiers. He had glanced up at her with such relish, making Sansa shudder with the realisation that he was finally back; and that he would subject her to his torments. She needed to _think_ about what to do with him. Lord Bolton had shown concern towards her wellbeing, but would it extend to dealing with his one remaining son? 

‘Lady Sansa’ 

It was as if pinpricks of ice had lodged themselves into her spine. She visibly shook as she turned to glare at Theon Greyjoy’s pitiful frame. It was still physically painful to look straight at him, be it from how changed and _damaged_ he looked, and from the amount of hurt she felt. He had a faraway look to his gaze, his neck tilted to the side as if broken, and his greying hair matted with sweat against his forehead. 

‘Theon’ she spat out. 

He shook at his name. ‘Not Theon’ vigorously shaking his head, ‘its Reek. My name is Reek’ 

Ramsay was worse than Joffrey, she felt her eyes tear up. Theon was a dog, a kinslaying dog; but Ramsay had broken him and turned him into his creature. ‘What did he do to you?’ 

‘Lord Ramsay is my master’ he intoned, making Sansa wonder if this is how she sounded to Lord Bolton. Damaged beyond repair as Joffrey and the Lannisters’ creature. ‘He made me pay for my sins’ 

Sansa glanced furtively back at the courtyard, thankfully no one was aware the two of them conversing in secret. Lord Bolton shook hands with the young Lord Umber, with that sullen amused look on his face. She returned her feverish glare back to Theon. ‘You were a brother to us’ She took a menacing step towards him, he stood stock still. ‘My father and mother treated you as their own. My brothers trusted you, they were children, with no one in the world after my father had died and my mother had left them’ 

She saw the tears flowing vigorously down his face, she continued. ‘What did you do, Theon? Did you lock them up in their chambers until you massacred everyone in Winterfell, and then you came for them? Or did you murder them and burn their bodies first for all to see?’ 

‘I—I didnt..’   
‘How could you do it?’ She started beating him with her fists, her voice barely a whisper. ‘You murderer, you turncloak, you _kinslayer_ ’ 

He fell to his knees, and clutched her skirt reverently. ‘Please, my lady. Hear what I have to say’ 

‘I dont want your apology’ she grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. ‘Dont you dare’ 

‘Your brothers..’ he wheezed from his excessive tears and the tight hold she had on him, ‘they’re alive’ 

She stilled. Her hands fell to her sides and she went down to her knees before him. ‘You murdered my brothers’ 

‘No no’ he was sobbing, his hand shook by his side. ‘The bodies were just two boys, any boys but not your brothers, to fool my father and sister. Bran and Rickon have escaped, Sansa’ 

Sansa sat staring with wide eyes at Theon. Was this a test? Had Ramsay or Lord Bolton sent this creature of theirs to test her loyalty? What did it mean that her two brothers were still alive, what did it mean that she now knew the truth? 

_There are two more Stark heirs,_ She realised. 

‘Why should I trust you?’   
Theon had a crazed expression on his face, he clutched her skirts and kissed them reverently. ‘Please, Sansa. Please, I’ve done wrong, such wrong but I needed you to know. You were my family, I could not kill my kin. I was foolish and vain, please’ 

She disentangled herself and pushed him off of her. She wanted to believe him, but she was so afraid— What if Lord Bolton was testing her? He had been so trusting and inviting lately, Sansa had even felt herself soften towards him; already seeking him out, enjoying his lessons, wanting to impress him. At night, she found herself hoping to find him after she woke up from one of her night terrors, holding her in his arms. But what if that was all to keep her checked? Sansa, the remaining Stark, and the key to the North, right under his thumb. Theon was here to test the waters, to show the Boltons whether Roose’s new investment was proving bountiful. 

‘I dont believe you’ she muttered, moving away from Theon. ‘Don't seek me out again, Theon’ 

As she thundered off the parapets, she heard Theon’s tortured shriek. _Bran and Rickon_ , Sansa blinked back hopeful tears, _are you out there, brothers?_

***


	10. A night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bites off more than she could chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I sorry for how long this is? Yes and no. It was a writing roller coaster alright. 
> 
> ENJOY x

Sansa sent her maidservant with word to Lord Bolton, informing him she had decided to attend the feast after all. It would take him off guard, surely he would question her decision, but for now she had to prepare. 

If Theon was not a ploy putting her to the test, and her brothers were truly alive, that meant that the Stark claim to the North was true. Sansa had to present herself at the feast, to remind the Northern lords of the Starks— it would be beyond stupid to declare to the hall that Bran and Rickon Stark, the heirs to Winterfell and rightful Kings of the North, were alive. If Lord Bolton used this feast as an opportunity to single out those disloyal to House Bolton, Sansa would keep an eye on who showed any inkling of loyalty to House Stark. Did this constitute as betrayal to Lord Bolton? _He murdered the last Stark lord_ , a voice reminded her. But she pushed it to the back of her mind, she had had her fill of their dead. If her brothers were truly alive, would Lord Bolton allow them to live? Could Sansa bring him to her side? She had listened to him, respected the way he educated her; she wouldn’t want to betray him, not when she felt a certain, reserved warmth towards him. But how could she seek out his backing for her brothers?

Tilly returned to her chambers with assurances that she had delivered her note to Lord Bolton herself in his audience chamber with the lords. Sansa wondered what the new Bolton bannermen were discussing with her lord, but she didn’t have time to dwell on potential alliances brewing in what used to be her father’s audience room. She set on getting ready. Her maidservant pulled out a peach coloured dress with a giddiness about her expression, ‘we haven’t tailored any Bolton coloured dresses for you, m’lady. But this one could serve’ 

They’ll deck her out in Bolton colours and show her off to the lords as the Dreadfort’s creature. Sansa shook her head at her maid, ‘maybe for tomorrow, Tilly. Please bring my mother’s chest’ 

Sansa wouldn’t disrespect Lord Bolton by dressing herself in Stark colors, it would be too much of a challenge to his new rule; especially that his guests dined and feasted in Winterfell. Instead, she opted for a cerulean blue dress of House Tully. Her eyes glazed over momentarily. As a child, Sansa had sat on her mother’s bed watching the lady of Winterfell dress for every occasion. The daughter staring at the mother in admiration and envy; proud that her mother was such a captivating and commanding woman, and hoping she would be just like her when she grew up. Catelyn Stark would not help her daughter get ready for tonight, nor will she tell her how to act like a lady of a stronghold. The only piece of advice reverberating through Sansa’s mind was Cersei’s ‘ _Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs._ ’ 

Sansa thought she didnt have any weaponry but her tears and grief— and she didnt even want to fight. But there were bigger things ahead of her; there is Ramsay, there is the potentiality of her brothers’ being alive, and then there is the tiresome Lord Bolton. Sansa had to pull herself from the mucky self-pity she had drowned herself in, and set out for the feast. She let Tilly lace up her dress, and then she stood staring at her reflection. The sheer material glided along Sansa’s pearly complexion, the bodice flattering to her figure, exposing a slight cleavage that would’ve made Septa Mordane faint. Staring at her image in the looking glass, Sansa was surprised to find that her body had filled out over the past few months; the sickly aura about her was diminished. The bags under her eyes seemed to resist disappearing, but her hips were more pronounced, her bust ampler, and her cheeks fuller and redder. The long sleeves covered the residual bruising from King’s Landing, almost fooling Sansa and everyone that she had never been touched in her life. A true Lord’s daughter. A lady. It had been a very long while since Sansa had listened to that young, vain voice of her childhood; she teared up at how she had missed looking well and healthy. The Lannisters had sucked her life force out of her, but now, she was alive— thanks to her guardian. 

 

A knock on her chamber’s door stilled her maidservant’s ministrations at brushing her hair. The girl servant glanced at Sansa through the looking glass expectantly and put down the hairbrush, ‘are you awaiting company, m’lady?’ 

Sansa stood in her new gown and motioned for Tilly to unlock the door. When the servant girl shrank momentarily, Sansa knew who was at her door step. ‘Lord Bolton’ she found herself feeling terribly shy. 

The new lord of Winterfell looked like he had freshly bathed, dressed in his leathers with a shaven face; Sansa found herself frowning at the loss of the beard. His sand-coloured hair looked darker with dampness. He glanced momentarily towards Tilly and motioned for her to leave the room. The maidservant curtsied and glanced in encouragement at Sansa. Once the door clicked behind him, Lord Bolton turned to stare at Sansa. 

She grew tense at the way his gaze took her in. He eyed the top part of her hair that was in a tight plait, whilst the rest of it rested in wide curls on top of her shoulders, his eyes followed those curls till they touched the tops of her bodice. The air seemed to escape the room as Lord Bolton took a few steps towards her, his eyes shining appreciatively at her dress. 

‘You look like you belong in the riverlands’ he murmured, ‘a river sprite’ 

Sansa felt the flush creeping up her neck, she curtsied for the lord and aimed for a smile, ‘thank you, my lord’ 

His eyes gleamed in amazement, realising that she had taken his words as a compliment. He stood infront of her, the heat intensifying in the space between them; Sansa felt the heady warmth loosen her limbs. She watched Lord Bolton stare at her auburn curls as he reached forward and pushed her tresses back over shoulders— exposing the spot where her shoulder blades were showing beneath her dress. There was a bluish bruise there, Lord Bolton brushed his fingers across it so softly that Sansa surprised herself by sighing inaudibly to the feel of his touch. 

‘Who was this?’ He spoke from behind clenched teeth. 

She difficultly extricated her gaze from his intense one to stare at where his fingers ghosted over her skin. ‘Ser Boros, reminding me to bend the knee when in the presence of the king’ 

He must’ve scoffed at her usage of Ser Boros’ title, but Sansa wasn’t paying attention. She was in her bedchamber all alone with Lord Bolton, and he was caressing her skin. After a moment, he brushed her hair into place— hiding the bruise, with a shadowed expression. He straightened in his spot and trained his serious gaze on her again.

Sansa thought he would ask her about why she had changed her mind— she would have to lie, and she felt so strongly about lying to Lord Bolton. But he did not ask. Instead, he extended his arm towards her and challenged her with his grey eyes to refuse him, ‘may I escort you to the hall?’ 

She placed her hand delicately around his arm, feeling the muscles taut beneath her touch. Gods, she thought as he guided them towards the dining hall. 

The words were forming in his mind, she could feel it. He was on the brink of asking her now, ‘Have you seen a lord or ser that caught your attention then?’ 

‘My lord?’ She stuttered, stilling like an ice log beside his frame. Has he noticed her exchange with Theon? But that was impossible, they were hidden in the parapets and Lord Bolton was busy welcoming his guests. 

‘You’ve changed your mind’ he tried again, ‘someone must’ve piqued your interest. Its quite normal, Lady Sansa, you’re a young girl, wanting to seek better and _youthful_ company, to enjoy a feast night’ 

The furrow between her brows was deepening by the passing minute. His words were cryptic— the tone was restrained enough, but almost open enough for her to wonder to whom was the aggression directed towards. Herself? The better and youthful company? What was he talking about? Sansa was already regretting her decision to attend. 

‘I think, lord Bolton, you’re terribly mistaken about my character’ she was surprised at her indignation. Why would Lord Bolton disparage her like that, taking her for a silly maiden who wanted to enjoy a feast— and seek out company? But what if she _did_ just want to enjoy the feasts, didn’t she deserve it? What did he even mean in the gods’ name. 

‘Am I?’ He stopped them in their tracks and turned to give her a once-over, eyes stilling over her dress one last time before they glared at her. When he noticed Sansa’s eyes widening in reaction, his steel face of false courtesy slipped back into place. ‘I have something to tell you before we present ourselves’ 

She pulled herself to her full height and stared directly back at him. ‘Yes, my lord?’ 

‘Do not engage in discussions with the guests over your position here. You’re my ward, that is all there is to divulge’ he didn’t have to lean down to glare at her, Sansa was quite tall enough to steadily meet his stare. ‘Not a word about your position. Have I made myself clear, Lady Sansa?’ 

Confused, but wanting him to relieve her of his intensity, Sansa quickly nodded. ‘Quite clear’ 

‘Good. And to further prepare you so as you’re not shocked once you enter, we have Freys amongst our guests’ The grey eyes sought hers— almost expectant, almost sympathetic. 

Sansa sucked in a breath and took a step away from Lord Bolton. It took a moment to ease her breathing again and feel her racing heart return to normalcy, Lord Bolton stood infront of her patiently waiting for her to say something. After the initial shock and roll of revulsion, Sansa knew that Lord Bolton wouldn’t give her over to the Freys to be killed; it made no sense, there was no political gain from this—and so she stilled, finding it difficult to meet her lord’s searching gaze. 

‘Why?’ 

He took a few hesitant steps towards Sansa, the slow movement more for her sake than his, and pushed her chin upwards for him. ‘They’re trying to arrange a match. I’ve not answered Walder Frey’s letters, and so he saw fit to send his men to negotiate directly’ 

Sansa blinked back at him quickly, streaks of white shadows blurring her vision. She needed to remain upright and awake, ‘a marriage match, w-with me?’ The spread of a feverish tingle all over her ice-cold frame made her feel as if she would be sick any moment now. 

To her surprise, something akin to a laugh rumbled in Lord Bolton’s chest. She looked up at his expression to find it full of mirthless amusement, ‘Must everything be about you Starks? No, my lady Sansa. Lord Frey seeks to arrange a marriage between myself and one of his girls’ 

 

Lord Bolton, married. Sansa wanted to scream at him for terrifying her before, but then she felt an uncomfortable irritation at the idea of Lord Bolton being paired off with a Frey woman. _To seal their bloody alliance_ , a bitter voice supplied in her. But somehow, Sansa felt that her bitter disquiet extended a little beyond the traitorous dealing between Bolton and Frey against her family. There was a certain heat building up inside her, but it was not of the good kind that made her want to go out and ride, no. Sansa felt like she wanted to lash out at something in irritation, like a selfish, greedy child. 

‘Why haven’t you answered Lord Frey?’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He mustn’t have expected her to ask that. 

He let go of her chin, taking a few steps back and glancing at the other end of the hallway. ‘Its an option to consider, as I’m not sure yet, my lady’ 

She grew irritated with his nonchalance, but she masked her face. _Two could play this game, my lord_. ‘About what?’ 

‘If the future Lady Bolton is up for the task’ She thought his tone sounded so strange— both mocking and melancholic. 

Before she could stop herself, Sansa cleared her throat, and murmured so quietly, ‘you can do better than a Frey, my lord’ 

‘Do you think so, my lady?’ Sansa thought she heard the smile in his words, but she couldn’t look at him. She was already lost in her thoughts when he brought her hand around his arm again and presented her to the hall. 

***

She was on her third cup of wine. She noticed Lord Bolton’s disapproving gaze from across the hall as she had taken the second cup from a passing tray. Sansa didn’t care. 

They had walked into the feast, with Sansa clutching Lord Bolton’s arm with both hands, and on her face was a cool and steely expression of relaxed courtesy. She had acknowledged the surprised nodding of the lords and ladies around them, and stood by the large brazier next to Lord Bolton as he welcomed his guests. 

Whilst he spoke, Sansa had swept the hall with a critical gaze. The guests were red-faced with mead and the heat, some looked honoured to be amongst the people chosen to back up the new Warden of the North, and the others smiled, nodded and whooped at the right moments in Lord Bolton’s speech in a rehearsed manner. And then there were those who were watching her. Sansa had always been watched at King’s Landing, her every curtsy, smile, and sob analysed to the smallest detail to weigh her loyalty to the crown. And while she was considered an outsider to the Southern lords and ladies of the court, a Stark traitor— Sansa was back in the North, in her ancestral home and the Northern lords and ladies also glanced at her with a narrowed and expectant eye. Sansa wondered, did they see her as a traitor to the North because they thought her a creature of Cersei Lannister, or was it because she was bound for the moment under the thumbs of Lord Bolton, or did they see her as a reminder of House Stark’s failure to secure the North’s interests in this bloody war. She couldn’t discern their loyalties, but it was quite clear that to them she was a strange foreign creature. _You’re not a true Stark_ , Arya had yelled at her once when Sansa didn’t want to go riding because it was too cold, _all you care about is the bloody South and those stupid dresses and songs_. 

But what had those arrows and mud and night rides done for Arya once push came to shove? Where was her sister now? ‘Sansa’ 

Lord Bolton had pulled her out of her thoughts by placing his hand on the one wrapped around his bicep. She glanced up at him questioningly. ‘Are you well?’ 

She nodded solemnly, he frowned at her expression but then motioned for the lords lining up to come forward. The encounter with Lord Harald Karstark had been one of the many things that had gone wrong during the night. Sansa stiffened in Lord Bolton’s arms, but she kept her gaze steady at the weather-beaten face of the young man whose father Robb had executed. 

‘My lord Bolton’ The young lord bowed reverently, and then turned to Sansa with an unfathomable expression. She could discern grief, rage, and determination— she recognised those feelings and as much as they hurt to stare at, Sansa took in the hateful expression of the young lord and accepted it. _We are not so different, my lord. I, too, have had my father executed for treason._

‘Lady Stark’ he clippingly nodded his head at her. 

She let go of Lord Bolton and curtsied, ‘Lord Karstark’ 

‘We did not think we would witness another Stark in Winterfell’ the young Lord spoke gruffly and loudly, gaining the attention of the rest of the crowd. ‘We thought those days were over’ 

Lord Bolton sounded like he was irritated with the theatrics but had to listen to it, ‘Lady Sansa is not here as a representative of House Stark, she is here as my ward’ 

‘There are no more Starks, Lord Karstark’ she murmured, ‘The Starks are dead, no?’ 

‘The Starks have brought it upon themselves!’ He turned and shouted to the audience. Sansa witheringly watched the men and women hoot in acknowledgement. ‘The Starks had lost the North when our King married that whore from Volatnis and ignored the war! They lost the North when Catelyn Stark set the Kingslayer free! The Stark pup lost the North when he branded my father as traitor, and killed him for executing Lannisters! _Our enemies!_ ’ 

The guests beat their cups against the tables and shouted their pledge to House Bolton and the North. Staring at their faces, Sansa realised she was hated for being a Stark. _I am no true Lord’s daughter. I am no lady._ How could she have fooled herself to think otherwise? She was in King’s Landing again, standing against an angry mob— being called a traitor and belittled by all. 

‘Thats quite enough, my lord Karstark’ Lord Roose Bolton murmured his order, and in a terrifying manner everyone in the hall quieted down. Even the wild, angry gaze in Lord Karstark’s eyes had dimmed into fearful respect as he acknowledged Lord Bolton. ‘As moving as that speech was, we’re here to celebrate a new era. No more Starks, no more Lannisters or Baratheons meddling into Northern affairs. Together, _all of us_ , we will rebuild the North, and won’t bend the knee to those who do not have the North’s best interests’ 

_Do you have our best interests at heart, Lord Bolton?’_ , was that what Sansa had thought the Stark loyalists would shout in support of her? She truly was a silly girl. Another round of applause and the masses were swayed. The memory of Ned Stark a ghost dancing to the music of the North’s forgetfulness. The audience disbanded, and Lord Bolton motioned for music to be played. Sansa had then slipped away from his grasp before he could speak to her. She walked around the tables, avoiding everyone’s searching eyes. 

‘Hello, sister’ she shut her eyes in agony, ‘Its been quite a while since I’ve seen you’ 

Ramsay reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to it. His cold lips making her shudder in revulsion and terror, Sansa swallowed weakly. ‘A warm welcome to you, Lord Ramsay’ 

His manic eyes gleamed at her apparent fear. ‘Since we are celebrating my good father’s achievements, I thought I’d introduce you to mine. Reek!’ He shouted and as Sansa turned to look, she saw the broken boy who was once Theon walk up to his master. 

With the same broken expression and vacant eyes, Reek bowed to her. Sansa kept her wide eyes on Ramsay instead. 

‘Do you recognize him, my lady?’ He had such relish in his cruel face, pushing Theon’s face right and left as if that would jog Sansa’s memory, ‘this is the Ironborn traitor’ 

She still refused to speak. Ramsay smiled, ‘ofcourse you dont see the young man of before. He doesn't look quite young anymore, I suppose’ then he chuckled, resting a hand on Theon’s shoulders, ‘and I guess not quite a man either’ 

Theon visibly shook infront of Sansa and she felt the room move around her. What had Ramsay done to him? What would Ramsay do to her if he had her all for himself? She looked beyond Ramsay’s shoulder, trying to seek out Lord Bolton’s help. But she stopped her search, her guardian was surrounded by Frey men, with quite a selection of Frey women flocking around him. Walder Frey had brought his commodities to Lord Bolton’s door, Sansa bitterly realized. The irrational anger of before moulded itself to the terror she felt towards Ramsay’s presence. ‘Lord Ramsay, it is good to have you back in Winterfell, and by your father’s side. Please excuse me’ 

When she turned to leave, she felt a cruel grip on her wrist pulling her closer to the bastard. He had his mouth to her ear, a threatening distance, ‘I expect more gratitude from my dear sister’ 

He let her go, smiling at her sweetly. ‘No matter, we’ll have more time ahead of us to get acquainted’ 

Sansa glanced between him and Theon, then thundered to the far corner of the hall. 

She stood now with her fourth cup of wine, glaring back at Lord Bolton’s penetrating gaze. He was alone with a Frey woman, dressed in a size too big pink frock, brazenly wearing Bolton colors as if to attract him, with black hair that trailed down her back. Sansa felt bad for the woman, hungry and forced by her father to deck herself out for a potential suitor— she wondered if that would’ve been Sansa’s fate if her parents were still alive. But hadn’t she dreamed about marrying a rich, young, loving lord or knight?; someone she would dress up for and impress during a feast. 

She nursed her cup of wine with bitterness, her mood souring with every sip she took. The night had gone like nothing she expected. All those false hope of feeling refreshed and beautiful as she fought for her brothers’ birthright; Sansa still thought and acted like she though life was a song. A beautiful song where if she believed hard enough or looked pretty enough, it would all work out. But here she was, with a tear-stained face, drunk, and simmering with grief and anger. She felt like she had assimilated Cersei’s traits too far; the Lannister Queen had told Sansa that she would teach her how to act in a manner befitting Joffrey’s Queen, but looking in retrospect, she realised that all she had learned was fear, pretending, and drunkenness. The room was closing in on her, and she could barely breathe— she needed to get out of here. 

When she aimed to move, she bumped into a maidservant carrying a tray of food. The resounding sound of the broken plates and the maid’s yelps brought everyone’s attention to the drunken tearful Sansa. Everyone stared at her with reserved coldness and judgement— another useless Stark, another embarrassment to the North. Before she had completely spiraled into endless self loathing, she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

She stared up through her tear-filled eyes to see Lord Bolton’s guarded expression. ‘Let me escort you to your room, my lady’ 

His grip on her was careful and loose, she found herself following his lead out the doorway. Once they were outside, the air in the corridors seemed to be chiller; Sansa felt her awareness of surroundings growing fainter and fainter as her body battled with shockwaves of heat and cold. 

‘Sansa’ Lord Bolton called for her but she couldnt speak, only leaned into the hand that cupped her cheek. 

She held onto his wrist and stuttered, ‘I-I need to leave’ 

In a matter of seconds Lord Bolton had pulled her into his arms; one arm below her thighs, and the other behind her back, pulling him to her chest. Sansa found herself curling into his warmth, clutching his neck with dear life. His heart beat steadily against her ear, lulling her more in her drunken stupor; almost making her question how long the journey was to her room. 

She came to consciousness again when he finally carried her into her room. Both Tilly and Genna were stoking the brazier, but dropped their work once they saw the way Sansa looked. 

Lord Bolton silenced them with a shake of his head, motioning them to leave the room. Genna scurried out in a mere seconds, Tilly instead set out Sansa’s nightgown by the bed post, and carefully walked out. Sansa called for her maids to come back, or atleast she thought she spoke but she couldn’t hear herself. Lord Bolton pushed the door shut with his foot and then sat on the edge of her bed, placing Sansa gently on his lap. She tried to sit upright but everything was spinning, and she felt feverish, and lord Bolton had her sat her his lap. 

She glanced up at his face, trying to gauge how he felt— disappointment? Disgust? Protective? His face was a mask, Sansa frowned. She watched him lean forward and unlace her boots, pulling one boot after the next in an attentive manner. Sansa found herself hiding her face against the crook of his neck, ‘why didn’t you answer the Freys?’ 

His fingers stilled on her exposed skin, but he didn't move her to look at him. ‘I told you’

‘No, you didnt. You of all people know what happens when you decline a Frey’s marriage proposal’ she sounded so angry and bitter, Sansa almost couldn’t recognize herself. 

‘I didn't agree to a betrothal, and then broke it off like your idiot brother’ He spat back at her, equally angry. Sansa was too intoxicated to notice. 

‘Gods’ she screamed, ‘I know, gods, I know Robb was stupid, I know he was not a great ruler, not a great soldier.’ She was wailing outright, and the tears stained Lord Bolton’s attire, ‘I know. You murdered a useless king to help the North from sinking further into the Lannister’s grasp , I see that. But you killed a young man, one with dreams of blindly avenging his family, one who loved, who was expecting a child!’ 

Lord Bolton didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell her to keep her voice down. He sat there quietly as she wailed in his arms, ‘You killed my brother still! not a king, not a lord, just my older brother. Would you admit that?’ 

‘I wouldn’t have wanted to kill your brother, Sansa’ he finally spoke, without emotion. ‘But I had to end the king’s rule’ She fell quiet again, the wine silencing her. 

He then shifted her on his lap till she gave him her back, one hand splayed across her abdomen keeping her from falling off his legs, whilst the other one made quick work of her dress’ laces. Sansa’s head was sending her all sorts of signals, _screaming_ at her that she was being undressed, by Lord Bolton, and yet she felt shockwaves of warmth to pool down between her legs. His fingers ghosted over her back, lingering far too long than was proper, making Sansa arch her back in response. She was overwhelmed and confused by the sensory overload of emotions, unaware that Lord Bolton had unlaced her and sat quietly behind her. 

‘Sansa’ he murmured gruffly, ‘please stand up’ 

_please?_ He helped her to her feet, pulling her to stand between his legs facing him. He clinically pushed the dress off her shoulders, pulling it all the way down until Sansa stood in her small clothes shivering. She wanted to cover herself with something but stood still, watching Lord Bolton have his fill of her. Almost as if she needed him to see her. Her bruises and cuts were exposed to him, and as much as she had shifted with irritation and embarrassment at Tilly and Genna’s sympathetic gazes, Sansa stood quietly for Lord Bolton. She watched his hooded eyes trail over every bruise, he turned her around momentarily to stare at her equally tarnished back, and brought her back to face him.

He rubbed one hand against his chest, warming it before delicately brushing a finger against a bruise blossoming by the top of her stomach. ‘What was this?’ 

‘Ser Merryn punched me, he wanted to bring out the song from me because Jeoffrey ordered me to sing’ she slurred over her words, but was blurting it all out. 

His fingers trailed downwards, leaving a line of fire along her hipbones, her thighs until he reached her red-scrawny knees. ‘And this?’ 

She glanced downwards and almost lost her balance but she rested her weight by clutching Lord Bolton’s shoulder harshly, she felt the muscles under her touch shift in response. She saw the abrasion marks on her knees, ‘I was dragged across the King’s audience chamber, Joffrey couldn’t hear me quite well’ 

Sansa watched Lord Bolton shut his eyes, as if concentrating on imprinting the shape of her body in his memory. They were quiet for a while, until Lord Bolton finally opened his eyes, staring up at Sansa with a storm brewing in them. He grabbed her linen night gown, and Sansa in response pulled her arms over her head . After she was properly dressed, Lord Bolton pushed the furs aside and helped her into bed. Before he pulled away Sansa grabbed his arm, he looked down at her but her vision was beginning to blur, she couldn’t see him clearly. She didnt know what the wine had done to her senses, but something spurred her to pull Lord Bolton beside her. ‘Stay’ she muttered sleepily, ‘I dont want night terrors tonight’ 

She couldn’t discern the expression on his face, but Sansa saw him nod curtly. She slipped further in her furs, watching him discard his leather jerkin and move to lie down beside her in his breeches and linen shirt. He didn't hesitate, Lord Bolton placed a determined hand on her hip and pulled her to his chest. Immediately, Sansa pressed up against him, falling into a deep sleep by the sure beating of Lord Bolton’s heart under her cheek.


	11. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa grows overnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w for dubious consent. But then i guess i’m just kinky like that lmfao?
> 
> Everyone’s comments are a blast to read! Thank you so much xx

In the dream, Sansa lay bare on the godswood’s snowbed. The ice bit into her skin but she was still, her eyes shut as a figure moved over her body. The feel of leather grazing against her bare skin, made her whimper expectantly in response. She opened her eyes momentarily to find Lord Bolton’s grey gaze staring down at her splayed position beneath him. In the dream as well as in the real world, Sansa could still not unlock the feelings behind his grey orbs— he doesn’t give her a moment to analyse him further before his mouth descended between her breasts. A moan escaped her lips at the feel of his mouth trailing kisses along her chest, brushing the underside of her breasts, until he reached the vulnerable part of her stomach. Sansa reached over to touch his face, but he pinned her hands to her sides, growling for Sansa to be still beneath him. 

Leaning down, Lord Bolton nipped her soft skin, making Sansa shiver and whimper. He alleviated the red marks by gently brushing his lips against it–– back and forth until she began to struggle against the restrained hold he had on her, in desperate need for _something_. 

_Roose_ , she had wanted to call out for him but she couldn’t speak in this dream. Sansa could only hear Lord Bolton’s labouring breath as he devoured her. When he looked up at Sansa from his ministrations, she could clearly see the hunger in his eyes calling to her. For a moment there was only the feel of Lord Bolton’s hard, brawny body covering hers, until the dream slowly erased the feel of him against her, leaving Sansa surrounded by a murder of crows circling over her— cawing as one by one they descended on top of her, piercing her belly with their beaks violently. 

She was ripped away from the dream world with a scream. She felt the surety of a hand rubbing up and down the expanse of her back in reassurance, pulling her back into consciousness. ‘Its alright, Sansa’ 

She blinked back several times into Lord Bolton’s chest, they sat in the middle of her bed. The events of the night before slowly unfolded in Sansa’s mind–– the hateful speech of Lord Karstark, the room swimming in her vision as the Starks were renounced, Ramsay taunting her, and the Freys surrounding Roose Bolton. She was drunk, Sansa closed her eyes in disgust, so drank Lord Bolton had to carry her off to her room. His touch all over her body yesterday washed over her as she sat in his arms now, he hadn’t stared at her scarred body in disgust or pity; instead, he had brushed his fingers against them, asking for their stories. Sansa decided that even if she wasn’t drunk, she would’ve told him what he wanted. She was only embarrassed at the way she had stood almost naked between his legs, letting him touch her as if she hadn’t had any proper instruction on how a proper lady should act–– to not let any man touch her unless he was of kin or her husband, and to show the bare minimum of decency. She glanced up at Lord Bolton, he met her gaze steadily, his hand unceasing in comforting her hyperventillating body. 

Ladies didn’t dream of such things either, and her body reacted on its own once the dream came back to her. The dampness between her legs throbbed painfully, worsening as her thighs rubbed against each other, and her nipples chafed against the nightgown, agonizingly sore pressed up to Lord Bolton’s hard chest; the thin layers of clothing making her feel exposed to him. She slowly pushed away from his chest using one hand, her head titling backwards without disturbing the growing headache. His eyelids were heavy with something unfathomable to Sansa, she could only recognize it as similar to the one in her dream, she shuddered away from his wandering hand. 

‘What time is it? she whispered. 

Lord Bolton glanced at the dying brazier, then at the thin shine of light seeping behind her window shutters. ‘A bit after dawn’ 

She finally slept a good while. Maybe drunk Sansa knew what was better for her after all, Lord Bolton’s presence had alleviated a nightmare before. ‘Thank you’ 

He doesn’t respond to that, instead he cleared his throat. ‘What was your dream about?’ 

Their eyes met and a blush instantly formed on Sansa’s already flushed skin. She couldn’t possibly tell him _that_ dream. She only shook her head at him, he frowned. 

He pushed himself out of bed, giving Sansa his back as he laced his boots back on. Without his eyes on her, she felt she could talk to him. ‘Did I speak in my sleep?’ 

He stilled for a moment before bending back again, ‘only in a few words’ 

She waited for him to continue but didn’t, instead he stood facing her as he buttoned up his jerkin. ‘Everyone will wonder where you went’ she moved to the edge of the bed, leaning on one palm, ‘maybe even the Frey girl’ 

‘Little Walda?’   
‘Is that her name?’ Sansa felt her blood simmering.   
Almost as if he could see beneath her skin, flaying her with his eyes to grasp her deep dark secrets, Lord Bolton dropped his hands from his jerkin and stared down at Sansa. He moved towards her until his knees bumped into the mattress, pulled her chin up to see her face clearly. ‘Why am I the only one at the receiving end of your fire?’ 

Sansa didn’t want to do this; not let him see how painful it was to have had to face all those people last night, who hated her as much as the courtiers in King’s Landing. She tried to pull away from his touch but he held her in place, eyes growing determined. ‘Tell the bastards and whores out there that you are nothing like your family. You, Sansa Stark, have survived what they all could not. You’re back in Winterfell, you are learning the game. The Lannisters have given me the North but Tywin Lannister will not lift a finger to send aid. Together we can have the North, Sansa. And the North will accept you, whether they like it or not. It’s your turn now; accept yourself, or else wallow in this self pity forever’ 

His words slowly clicked into place, the meaning and force behind them embedded into her mind. Sansa realised that she would keep the memory of Lord Bolton’s molten, fiery gaze with her for a long time. Her body moved of its own accord, she climbed out of bed with a hand on Lord Bolton’s chest— pushing him a few steps back, arranging herself infront of him. Sansa stood on her tip toes as she pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. _A kiss befitting a knight from the songs_ , she sardonically mocked herself. She heard Lord Bolton’s intake of breath, felt him fist the back of her nightgown in his palm, and then watched him move away from her with a guarded expression. 

‘I won’t be present at breakfast’ he kept his eyes lowered to where his hands were fastening his leathers, ‘but I hope to escort you to dinner, my lady’ 

Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, staring after Lord Bolton with a strange fluttering in her stomach, ‘I’ll wait for your lordship then’ 

He nodded briskly at her and slipped out the door. Sansa chuckled under breath. The Warden of the North, sneaking out of her room in the early calling of dawn. 

*** 

Breakfast was a much quieter affair than last night. All the lords and ladies were nursing their drunkenness by eating heartily or engaging in quiet conversations. Sansa nodded her head in acknowledgement to all those who bid her a good morning, the end of the festivities had hampered their hostility towards her somehow. On the high table, there was only Sansa and Ramsay. The Bolton Bastard was in a gruesome mood, however. His hair was mussed, eyes even more deranged, and expression set on cruelty and anger. 

Sansa had hoped for some show of civility with all the guests present, but Ramsay would have none of it. He aggressively cut his food as he spoke from between clenched teeth, ‘You and father made quite the spectacle last night. Everyone wondered where our dear Warden had run off with his young wolf’ 

Sansa lost her appetite, but instead of cowering at Ramsay, she found herself growing irritated. ‘Your father helped me to my room, as everyone could clearly see I was in no condition to remain at the feast’ 

‘Oh yes, you were quite drunk. Easily taken advantage of’ _what does he want? What does he desire?_ ‘and yet, you look quite well now. Maybe well enough to crack this puzzle with me, yes?’ 

Everyone wanted to play games. She leaned back in her chair, and focused her attention on Ramsay. ‘I hope I can be of assistance, my lord’ 

‘You see’ he was quite angry, Sansa could see the veins of his neck pulsating, ‘Father had made some promises to me once I had taken back Winterfell and yet here he is, having you as his ward and enjoying house Frey’s marriage proposals being tossed at his feet, and completely forgetting about his true born son’ 

_Bastard. Bastard. Bastard._ It was all Lord Bolton called his son, Sansa looked away from the manic look on Ramsay’s face. It made her sick to see it. ‘Father aims to get married, to sire children of his own— true Boltons as he told me this morning, and the question is, dear _sister_ , where do we fit in this equation?’ 

‘We?’ She turned to question him.   
He nodded vigorously, she felt the knife in his hand push against her thigh under the table. She held herself in check, and concentrated. ‘Have you questioned why you are his ward? What could be his gain from having you under his thumb, a sweet and delicious girl like you there for his taking, and yet he treats you like his god-damned heir. And myself? I’m his dog, and he throws me his buggering scraps—’ 

‘—Lord Ramsay, please remove the knife’ she tried to think but she thought he had drawn blood from pushing the blade too far into her. 

‘I wont let him destroy me, I’ll make him regret pushing me aside’ Ramsay smiled at her, ‘even if it means saying goodbye to the both of you, dear sister’ 

She almost wanted to smile back at him. For once, the whispered, callous advice of Cersei and Littlefinger had finally paid off. Her mind set off on its own, fashioning a plan after the encounter; she won’t be murdered. Not if she can help it. 

*** 

Sansa walked to Roose Bolton’s private solar after being refused to an audience with him in the great hall by the guardsmen. Lord Bolton was with the war council and was not to be disturbed. She decided to grab her parchments and exercises and work until dinner in her own room. After a while her eyes began to burn and last night’s dream visited her again. 

She hadn’t given herself time to mull over it, nor did she allow herself to question the nature of her relationship with Roose Bolton. Closing her eyes and thinking of his lips on her bare skin, Sansa felt her body’s instant reaction to it— her neck flushing, her core pulsating, and her breathing getting rougher. She wished she could have a friend to talk to about these things, Jeyne Poole was a doe-eyed maiden just like Sansa but they had talked of boys and marriage before in the superficial way young ladies did. But in King’s Landing, Sansa was exposed to the explicit gossiping and explanations of Margery Tyrell and Shae. She had listened closely as they explained the needs and desires of men; how to weld and shape them to her own, how men desired women in certain manifestations. But to Sansa it was as foreign as the songs and tales she had loved so much— not meant for her, but she could appreciate them from afar, think about them, but not expect herself to be living them. What did she feel about lord Bolton? Sansa couldn’t understand her mind, all she knew was that she was warming up to him, to his instructions, his fiery determination to break her out of the enclosed shell she had formed around herself. Sansa knew that she wanted to be drawn out, and she wanted Roose Bolton to draw her out. 

She felt tired of working on her lessons, but soon as she lay down in her bed than Sansa began to fidget. The Frey woman’s pitiful pink frock came back to her, and Sansa was fuelled by an urge to show the potential bride how it should be truly worn. A deep part of her also wanted Lord Bolton’s appreciative gaze on her, she could admit that to herself. _Together we can have the North_ , he had told her. _You are part of house Bolton, Sansa_. 

She called her maids to get her some stitching materials, and then Sansa spent the rest of her afternoon reworking her peach coloured dress into a Bolton creation. She added black fur to the collar and sleeves, and concentrated on the intricate red stitching to the hem and bodice. The black, red, and pink colors of Lord Bolton’s banners would garb her through tonight’s dinner. Even Tilly and Genna noticed her feverish excitement and helped her prepare for the night with equal fervour. 

When Lord Bolton’s punctual knock came to her door around dinnertime, Sansa was finding it difficult to maintain a clear and composed face. Her maids opened the door and curtsied to the lord on their way out. She watched Roose Bolton’s face for any sign of approval, his impassive face had shifted once he took one look at her decked out in his colours. His eyebrows lifted, grey eyes taking her in, as he shut the door behind him; unable to look away from her. 

The words were stuck in her throat, and blood rushed in her ears— Sansa held her breath as he stood infront of her. His fingers trailed over the fur of her collar, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger as if he was fascinated with them. ‘You made this yourself?’

She nodded, but realised he wasn’t looking at her face, and so she spoke, ‘Septa Mordane used to say that every accomplished Lady needed the skills of stitching and embroidery’ 

Lord Bolton brushed her hair away from her face, Sansa could feel that was something was off with him tonight. Had his conversation with Ramsay been so disagreeable? ‘Gods, Sansa’ Lord Bolton sighed dejectedly, he was grinding his teeth, and he looked like he was staring at her unseeingly. ‘It is beautiful. But you cant go to dinner dressed like that’ 

‘Oh’ She moved away from his touch, eyes hurt and confused. ‘I-i meant no disrespect, my lord’ 

‘That is not what I meant, Sansa—‘   
‘—then what is it?’ 

He glared down at her, she was baiting him and Sansa knew it. She was growing equally angry at his sour mood. ‘I will not explain myself to you, _girl_. You will do as I say. Now change into something else’ 

They stood there for a few charged moments staring at each other, waiting for who would break away first. Sansa gave him one last once over before she shouldered past him towards the door, ‘No’ she murmured. 

She felt his rage before he gripped her forearms to bring her before him again. ‘I dont take it lightly when I’m dismissed, my lady’ he spat out, his low-toned voice a gruff mixture of threat and anger. ‘Take off that dress’

‘No, my lord’ she repeated, eyes plastered to his chest. He was breathing wildly, chest rising and falling so fast as if he had come back from riding. Her eyes were beginning to sting with tears. Together, she scoffed at her idiocy; she never did learn her lesson. She believed whatever she was told, and here she was embarrassing Lord Bolton infront of his guests; pretending to be someone else after her family’s house had been denigrated. She had only wanted to impress him. 

Maybe it was her second refusal, and stubbornness that undid him. Or maybe it was the day’s meetings, but suddenly Sansa found herself turned around with her wrist twisted behind her back. She struggled against Lord Bolton’s grip, but she was much feebler, and the growl that tore from the back of his throat stilled her. She heard what sounded like a knife being unsheathed, followed by the sound of cloth ripping. Sansa shrieked as Lord Bolton passed his knife through her back laces and sliced her dress into two. With only one hand, he dragged the dress to her feet and Sansa found herself for the second night in a row dressed only in small clothes before Lord Bolton. 

Her attempts at struggling free finally stopped when Lord Bolton pressed her flush against him, her arm still pinned behind her back, and his left arm wrapped around her bare waist keeping her still. Sansa could hardly breathe, she could feel every hard ridge and metal of Lord Bolton’s attire poke into her feverish skin. She tried to escape one last time only to have her heart drop to her stomach as she feels Lord Bolton’s stiff manhood pressing into her scantly-covered behind. 

With his mouth by her ear, voice threatening silkily, Lord Bolton muttered, ‘you’re a little girl, Sansa, I cant explain everything to you. When I order you to do something, you do it. Disobeying me helps you in no way, it only makes it difficult for me to think clearly when you do it’ He pressed his groin further into her plush body for emphasis. Sansa was fuming, at her body for betraying her by reacting so strongly to his hardness like that, confusing her all together by the growing dampness between her legs. ‘Have I made myself clear, Lady Sansa?’

‘Yes’ she croaked out, not wanting to move any further against him. As if her voice pulled him out of his stupor, Lord Bolton let go of her. 

Sansa turned around and faced him, he had his eyes blazing and nose flared in a predatory fashion. She couldn’t stop herself, but Sansa slapped him on the face. The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek resounded all over her bedroom, stunning the both of them into silence. Lord Bolton stood with his hand over his red-inflamed cheek, and Sansa glared up at him. 

She turned away from him and felt his eyes on her as she extracted one of her old grey dresses— slipped it on and laced it herself. She then moved towards the ripped dress at his feet and without giving Lord Bolton another look she tossed it into the open flame. Standing infront of him, she realised she was much calmer now, albeit the throbbing between her legs was relentless in torturing her. ‘Shall we go to dinner, my lord?’ 

Roose Bolton stood stunned, narrowed eyes watching her calm and stilled expression. He rubbed his hand one last time against his cheek before removing it, Sansa stared apologetically at the red marks of her fingers. It was her turn to be stunned when Lord Bolton undid the belt with the dagger holster from around his waist, and brought it over Sansa’s body. Sansa responded to his soft tug around her waist to move closer to him, he adjusted the leather belt until it hung loosely around her hips, the dagger resting against her thigh. ‘This is yours now’ 

Sansa thumbed her new possession in curiosity, ‘I dont know the first thing about combat’ 

Lord Bolton opened the door for her solemnly and extended his arm, ‘we’ll add combat to your lessons’


	12. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa seeks the help of Theon. A sparring lesson escalates.

Sansa stood infront of the kennels’ gate trying to grasp for that inkling of resolve that had brought her here. Her maidservants had told her of Theon’s abode, stunning Sansa. He was a Greyjoy, Lord Balon’s son; how could Lord Bolton allow his bastard to do this? 

_Where do we fit in father’s plan, dear sister?_ Ramsay’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her that although she was exploring her feelings towards Lord Bolton, especially after the embarrassing reaction of her body to Roose Bolton’s patronising methods of stripping her of her dress the night before, Sansa had to tread carefully around the Warden of the North.

She would not allow Ramsay to overstay his presence, her plan was fully formed in her head and she could not do it without Theon. She could trust no one here in this den of vipers, but if Theon wanted to prove himself to her— he would help her. She pushed the gates and was immediately greeted by the thick growling of Ramsay’s dogs. She moved towards the voice speaking at the very end of the kennel. Theon Greyjoy, now Reek, was huddled on the ground in his filthy attire, mumbling to himself as the light turned to dark outside. It was almost time for dinner, and they would be looking for her— Sansa had to be quick about it. 

‘Theon’ she called, sitting on her knees so that she could be closer to him. ‘Are you awake?’ 

The broken creature stared openly at her with unseeing wide eyes; broken and dishonoured. ‘Sansa? My name is Reek, he calls me Reek’ 

Sansa got up and shoved open the kennel door, not wanting to scare Theon, she knew what it was like to feel like a cornered rat, Sansa slowly extended her hand towards him until he accepted her touch. Running her hand softly across his forearm, feeling callused skin and sharp bones beneath her fingers, she leant forward and whispered, ‘does he know of what truly became of my brothers?’ 

‘I-i can’t—‘ he croaked, but Sansa shushed him reassuringly. 

‘—Theon, he wont touch you again. I’ll make sure of it. We will help each other’ Sansa wanted him to see the determined look on her face but poor Theon was sobbing into his fist. ‘Please, Theon’ 

‘My name is Reek’ he slobbered over his words. 

Sansa placed a delicate hand atop his cheek and spoke brazenly into his ear, ‘you are Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Ramsay Snow cannot take that from you.’ 

She watched the conflicting decisions at war in his expression before dejection and surrender won over and he nodded to her. ‘He knows’ 

Her heart shook against her ribs. She steeled herself against the possibility that Ramsay could possibly be already hunting down her brothers to make sure there are no more Stark contenders to the Bolton claim. Battling against the heaviness in her heart, Sansa had to ask to make sure, ‘Does Roose Bolton know?’ 

‘No’ Theon muttered, ‘Lord Ramsay doesn’t trust his father’ 

She was ashamed of the sigh of relief escaping her lips. 

‘I need proof of your trust, Theon’ she helped her step-brother into a seated position, levelling her gaze to his frantic ones, ‘something to prove to me that you’re not lying to me’ 

‘He’ll torture me again, Sansa, he’ll do it’ Theon’s lips shivered uncontrollably, ‘i can’t, but you must believe me. They’re alive’ 

‘If you do what I suggest’ Sansa glanced behind her back to check if they were still alone, ‘you and I wont have to worry about Lord Snow for a very long while’ 

*** 

She was late for dinner. She had returned back to her chambers after handling a few matters with Theon in order to wash off the dirt and sweat from her body. She sensed her entire body shaking as she hurried through Winterfell— her heart sped at the reality of what she had done. There was no going back now, Sansa had set things into motion and she could only now pray that neither she or Theon would be exposed. The broken Ironborn was returned to his cell beside the dogs, and Sansa now entered the dining hall as demurely and sensibly as a lady could. The hall made no notice of her tardiness, but she could feel his eyes on her as soon as she had walked passed the doors. She took her seat on the high table by Lord Bolton’s right, avoiding his searching gaze. 

‘Lord Bolton, Lord Snow’ she curtsied at her table partners before reaching for the spiced wine. This time she would drink gingerly if she wanted to have a clear head afterwards. 

Ramsay grunted in reply, still overly sour at his encounter with his father. Lord Bolton on the other hand had stopped eating and averted his gaze towards his guests. ‘Where were you?’ 

Sansa looked up at him but he had his eyes trained elsewhere. _Surely not at Little Walda_ , but she didnt want to check. ‘I was bathing, my lord’ 

‘I went to your room’ his moonlight mist eyes rounded on her, staring her down. ‘You weren’t there’ 

‘You came for me?’ she almost wanted to strangle herself for how hopeful she sounded, but she reprimanded herself. Sansa Stark was done with sheltering her feelings, no regrets and no holding back. 

She watched his pale eyes search her face for something. Deciding that he could not find what he was looking for, Lord Bolton turned away from her and ignored Sansa for the rest of the night. She realised that he was still upset that she had slapped him. She was not going to apologise. 

After dinner was done, Lord Bolton excused himself from the company of his guests and left without even a second glance back at Sansa. She glanced at his retreating back dejectedly, a gesture not gone unnoticed by her remaining companion. 

Ramsay chugged on his cup of mead, ‘he’s plotting, that one’ 

_He is not the only one, Lord Snow_. ‘Perhaps you are right’ 

‘Ofcourse I’m right, you Stark bitch. And its me he’s trying to oust, but I wont let him’ He fumed, his manic gaze turning on Sansa, ‘and I know something you dont, _sister_ ’ 

Sansa glanced away from his smile to around the hall chillingly, wondering if any of the guests had heard the son’s deranged ranting. She slowly got up from her seat and bid Ramsay a good night. Hopefully, his last. 

Through a quick detour to her room, Sansa put on the dagger holster Lord Bolton had presented her with, and headed towards the icy lord’s private solar. She knocked in the same manner she always did when it was time for her night lessons, but she received no reply. Struggling with indecision, she decided to push open the door. 

The solar room was well lit by the flickering candle sticks on Lord Bolton’s desk, and the massive fireplace. Sansa could clearly see the pile of letters and parchment before Lord Bolton, who sat facing her with his legs stretched before him. He had his eyes narrowed at her as she closed the door behind her, never breaking eye contact. She pulled her chair closer to his desk until she sat infront of him, and began reaching for her quill. 

His voice was a like the fall of a whip on her flesh, Sansa felt shivers run down her spine. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

Loosening out a breath, she caught his gaze in all seriousness and replied. ‘For my lessons. I even brought the dagger’ 

‘You didn’t come for your lessons yesterday’ it was the mocking tone now, his eyes sparkled with that sinister, trickster gleam. 

‘Not one of my best days, my lord, apologizes’ 

Her monotonous tone must’ve terribly amused him as his lips tugged into a smile that promised her something she couldn’t interpret. ‘Lets start with your dagger, then’ 

He offered her his hand, and she took it as Lord Bolton helped her out of the chair. She stood by his desk as he began clearing away chairs, chests and the table from the middle of the room. Something caught her attention on his desk, she hadn’t meant to look but she would recognise the seal anywhere. A mockingbird. 

Sansa stilled and quickly ripped her gaze away from the mess of the desk before Lord Bolton turned towards her again. Littlefinger and Roose Bolton corresponding. Last time she had seen Lord Baelish, she had been weeping on the steps of the Keep’s port as Littlefinger promised to get her away from King’s Landing. But he had forgotten about her, instead he had married her aunt at the Vale and Sansa had all together forgotten about him in return. However, it didn’t make sense. Why would Littlefinger send a letter to Lord Bolton? 

The sound of a dagger being unsheathed pulled her from her thoughts. Roose Bolton stood straight-backed and menacing with a dagger positioned in his hand. Sansa swallowed audibly. Lord Bolton without any weaponry was a force to be reckoned with— his sharp gaze, low voice and ruthlessness was enough to elicit fear and respect in his subjects. But standing there with a small gleaming dagger in the palm of his hand, Sansa wondered how formidable he really was. 

He cocked an eyebrow at her, ‘take out your weapon’ 

She followed his instruction, and surprisingly felt her blood quicken at the sound of steel grazing against its holster. Seeming displeased with the way she was holding it, he lessens the space between them by pulling Sansa closer to him as he began to rearrange the dagger in her hands into a more stronger grip. ‘It feels more secure in your grasp, yes?’ 

His fingers had lingered against her skin, ‘yes’ she breathed out. 

‘Good. Now, lets start’ he stands sideways with the knife hand furthest away from Sansa. ‘We’ll start with a front attack. If your attacker is coming directly towards you, you step sideways—‘ he moved forwards almost stalking with his dagger held low. ‘—and you have to anticipate the move; will the blow go to your innards or throat?’ 

She nodded in concentration, eyes narrowing at his approaching body. He was too fast for her, he intimidated her with his barrelling frame rushing towards her that her abdomen was easily open for attack. 

He positioned the sharp edge of the knife just along her bodice. He stared down at her through a sobered expression, ‘you’re dead’ 

He angled her around till she gave him her back, he had his dagger now below her throat. ‘If your opponent hadn’t killed you yet, then you’ll hold you in a position to make you vulnerable like this’ with his free hand, he positions her knife hand by her side. ‘Pretend you could reach for your dagger as you’re locked, where would you attack?’ 

Sansa twists the knife in her palm and pokes it against Lord Bolton’s thigh pressing against her legs. His lips are her ears, ‘not good enough’ 

Considering her prostrate position, and the the building up of heat from the feel of his strong hard body pressed up against her, Sansa mulled over her options. ‘Can I reach your eye?’ 

His dagger’s icy feel whispered against her neck, ‘you’ll be endangering yourself’ 

When she begins to feel a growing ache from being stuck in the same position for too long, Lord Bolton noticed. ‘Where’s your elbow, Sansa?’ 

She smiled. _At your groin_. Sansa visualised what she aimed to do and slowly moved her elbow against her location without actually injuring Lord Bolton. He followed her simulation by bending forwards as if in pain, ‘grab my wrist that holds the knife and hit it with your elbow’ 

Sansa followed his instructions ever the diligent student until Lord Bolton dropped his dagger as her elbow softly connects with his wrist. ‘Now’ he wrapped both hands around her dagger hand, ‘the quickest way to ensure I wont come after you is to sink the dagger as deep as you can here’ 

He positioned her hand just above his hips, where his side is more vulnerable for puncture and internal bleeding. He kept his hands on her, and Sansa instantly began to feel the flush creep up her neck as their eyes locked in intensity. They were only separated by the dagger balanced against each of them, Sansa could feel the tremors in her body echoed through Lord Bolton’s heavy breathing. 

She allowed herself to soften under his scrutiny, ‘Dont be angry with me’ 

‘My feelings were hurt, Lady Sansa’ he was mocking her, it made her want to genuinely laugh for what felt like the first time since her father had been executed infront of her. 

They disengaged, and Lord Bolton put her knife back in place, hand lingering on Sansa’s hip. ‘Where were you before dinner?’ 

‘This is also why I came here’ she murmured seriously, this was her moment. ‘I couldn’t speak infront of Lord Ramsay’ 

The hand on her hip tightened for a fraction, ‘did he do something to you, my lady?’ 

She shook her hand, extracting herself from his hold. If she was about to lie to lord Bolton, she wouldn’t be able to do it with his exploring touch on her. ‘I was doing my rounds through our winter supplies and going through the records we’ve drawn up together’ 

She waited for him to grasp where she was going with this. He nodded for her to continue, ‘and what did you find?’ 

‘A discrepancy’ she declared, reaching for the records and showing him the numbers he had written for Ramsay to procure from the Dreadfort’s supplies. ‘Between the amount of grain you had demanded and the amount Lord Ramsay checked in with your men at Winterfell’ 

Lord Bolton took the offered records and sat on his chair with a contemplative look as he went through the numbers again. ‘You are sure of this?’ 

‘You may ask the men responsible for the grain supplies, my lord. I spoke to them and they corroborated my suspicions’ 

‘Suspicions?’ 

Sansa held her breath and locked gazes with Lord Bolton’s brewing storm ones. ‘Grain supplies are missing from our stores, none of your new bannermen would dare steal from us. However, you did mention that the Crown is trying to secure supplies of its own.’ 

‘You think my bastard is working with the Lannisters’ his voice was a whisper now, as he stared at the blazing fire infront of him. He had arrived at that on his own, she realised— the distrust between father and son ran deep. 

‘I don’t know, my lord’ she threw the uncertain demure bait, and stood quietly staring at the hem of her dress as Lord Bolton mulled over the information she had provided. 

He cleared his throat and Sansa lifted her eyes to watch him. He motioned for her to come closer, spreading his knees apart for her to stand between them. 

Sansa held her breath as Lord Bolton’s impenetrable face gazed up at Sansa. ‘Don’t hit me again’ 

It was an order— threateningly playful. 

She nodded curtly, ‘good night, Lord Bolton’ 

He let her excuse herself, and yet Sansa had almost hoped he would ask her if she would like to escape her night terrors tonight as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what, guys, I’m actually enjoying Ramsay. Not so sure I want to get rid of him yet BUT BE PREPARED FOR WHATS COMING NEXT.


	13. Night Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose receives two visitors in one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this.. was wild to write, you guys.

Sansa tossed and turned in bed. She couldn’t sleep, all she could think about was how dishonoured her family would be with what she had done. Lord Eddard Stark would’ve been shocked that a daughter of his would be scheming in such a manner. Arya would have no problem with what Sansa had in store for the Snow bastard, instead she would call her sister a coward for choosing to scheme instead of battling it out with Ramsay. Sansa was not Arya, and she was not her father— she worked with what she had, she tried to convince herself as she slipped out of bed. 

Lord Bolton had not invited her to sleep by his side to avoid her night terrors, but Sansa hoped that it didn’t constitute as a refusal either. She made her decision. For what is to come ahead, Sansa needed to rest; no nightmares, no screams, just a deep dreamless slumber. She convinced herself it was the only reason she was seeking his bedside. 

Stalking the corridors until she reached her old bedroom door, now Lord Bolton’s room, Sansa felt the irony of the situation. Back when her family was alive, a younger Sansa would take the same trip after a bad night’s dream but only backwards— running to her parents’ arms to escape her demons. _Am I running towards my demons now?_ Sansa didn’t care. She had begun to see Lord Bolton in a new light now, even if she was plotting the demise of his bastard— Sansa still felt a certain affinity to her guardian’s commanding yet reassuring presence in her life. When she pushed open the door, and stepped into her childhood room, Sansa felt like she had truly come home. The familiar shadows her old fireplace threw along the walls, the arrangement of chests, table, and chair reminded her of all the times Catelyn Stark sat instructing her maids to dress Sansa for the day, and all the nights when her mother brushed her hair until it shone brightly like a true Tully woman. Sansa blinked away the painful memories, those were for the past, now she needed to look forward, and _live_. 

She quietly tip-toed towards the bed where Lord Bolton was splayed out on the bed. She stood over him and felt a strange fluttering in her chest at the sight of Lord Bolton so restful in her childhood bed. He slept on his back, with one arm cushioning his head, her gaze lingered on the way his muscles bulged from the tension of being bent. The furs were pushed back and exposed his bare chest, the dark hairs more pronounced on his sculpted torso as they trailed down to his breeches where his free hand casually lay there, the furs hanging just over his hips. She held the back of her hand against her cheek just to check if she was hot to the touch as she felt on the inside— her core was pulsating and she was short of breath. She remembered the racing breaths she had whilst she spied on Lord Bolton’s swim when they were marching to Winterfell, gods it felt like ages ago. And yet her awareness of his bare body being so close to her was utterly different on both occasions; when he had caught her spying, Sansa had been terrified and mortified, unable to grasp how her reactions were those of a woman being faced with an attractive man. Yet now, after clearly acknowledging that Lord Bolton was both— handsome and attractive, Sansa didn’t know how she would react if he opened his eyes and found her studying his body again. 

At the uneasy restfulness on his face, she wished she would caress away the furrow between his brows. But would the formidable Lord Bolton allow her such a touch? She was not his wife, or daughter, or his kin to show such affection. But then she shouldn’t be in his room at this gods forsaken hour in the first place, yet there she was; knees bumping against the bed with such helplessness. It was wrong, she knew it— after all Lord Bolton had done to her family, Sansa stared at his profile shadowed by the dancing of the flames; he was not a cruel man to her, but he had killed and pillaged and plotted against her family. _He has protected you, fed you, taught you new things, and you have accepted him_ , a voice whispered in her but she shook her head as if to pour out the words from inside of her. But it was still wrong, he was much older than she was, more important, more powerful. And she was a wandering lost child who would bring him nothing but irritation and distraction. She was planning to bring down his one heir. She needed to get out. 

As she turned to step away from the bed, Lord Bolton’s voice slid over her skin like silk. ‘Why are you still awake?’ 

Sansa returned to her position of standing over him, just close enough for his reach and watched him. Lord Bolton hadn’t moved, his head only shifted a little to the left to look at her straight. She didn’t think it was possible to get redder in the face, but the way he felt so relaxed in his nakedness made her want to shut her heavy eyelids in surrender to whatever it is he wanted of her. ‘I cant sleep’ she whispered. 

He pursed his lips for a few moment, the words whirring behind his eyes clearly for Sansa to see. He finally pushed back his furs and returned to his relaxed position— although Sansa could see that the muscle of the arm behind his head had tightened considerably, along with the rest of his body slipping into a restraint so taut. She watched him glance up at her and then to the space next to him, taking it as his invitation to her, Sansa felt the bed dip beneath her weight as she settled under the furs, leaving a proper distance between her and Lord Bolton. She lay still on her back, her hands ceremoniously placed just below her breasts and closed her eyes trying to even her breathing. She could feel Lord Bolton’s eyes burning her skin, the goosebumps spread along her body beneath her nightgown; relentless in eliciting a reaction from her. 

‘Sleep well, Lady Sansa’ 

And she did. 

*** 

Sansa stirred from sleep feeling pressed up to Lord Bolton’s chest. Her head rested on his arm, her face pressed into his chest, and their bodies wrapped around each other. It wasn’t clear to Sansa who had reached for the other first, but over night they had crossed the respectful distance Sansa had established and wound themselves around each other. To her embarrassment, Sansa’s leg was splayed around his waist, her nightgown bunched up in his fist tightly around her own curved waist, her bare skin rubbing against his breeches. 

She couldn’t move, or breathe, no matter how much she wanted to pull away to stare up at Lord Bolton’s sleeping face. Her face was burrowed in the space between his shoulder and chest, when her lips brushed against his chest as she tried to move, he stirred awake under her touch. Sansa held her breath as Lord Bolton’s body stiffened once realisation of their entangled situation sobered him from the warm cocoon of their slumber. It took a moment for him to relax against her, slowly untangling his fist from the bunched up night gown. He didn’t speak, although he must’ve known she was already awake, instead something caught his attention on Sansa’s body and she felt Lord Bolton’s hand lazily brush up her along back until he reached her shoulder. She shuddered in his arms as he untied the knot of her gown and pushed the material away from her one rounded shoulder. His warm fingers tracing over an old scar there brought stars to Sansa’s vision, she didnt know what she was experiencing but something close to a moan was close to spilling out of her mouth until Lord Bolton murmured quietly. ‘Where is this from?’ 

The words rumbled in his chest beneath her cheek, and Sansa wanted to bury her inflamed body further into the furs so she would escape the raging emotions his touch was extracting from her. After swallowing rather audibly she muttered, ‘Arya tried to cut my hair while I was asleep’ 

His fingers ran up and down the ridge of the knife’s scar on the back of her shoulder, finally she could no longer take it— she pushed away from his chest gently and sat up in bed. He stared up at her from beneath heavy eyelids, Sansa realised that this was what the Lord of the Dreadfort looked like when he first woke up; his eyes shone with intelligence but the slow-handed way he rested back into his pillows made Sansa feel she had trespassed on a personal and intimate moment. ‘Your sister sounds like a beast’ 

‘In her defence I woke up and struck her, the knife just grazed me as it dropped from her hand’ Sansa was smiling at the memory, ‘mother went mad at her that night, father only pretended to reprimand her, ofcourse, then he asked Jon to teach her how to wield weaponry more carefully’ she wondered if Arya had died as everyone assumed or was she as lost as her brothers somewhere in the seven kingdoms trying to come home? 

When she finally stopped her journey through the past’s ghosts, Sansa realised that Lord Bolton was staring at her exposed shoulder. She quietly arranged her gown into place again, tying the knot tightly at her throat. 

‘Does it help?’ He didn’t need to clarify what he is asking, Sansa simply nodded sheepishly, looking away. 

‘I mostly dream about Joffrey, and his knightsguard, abusing me’ she couldnt understand where the impulse to speak came from, but there was no going back now; Lord Bolton had straightened up with his back to the headboard. Sansa found it very difficult to ignore his nakedness and so she stared at her hands in her lap. ‘Joffrey likes it when I cry . His knights even like it more when he asks them to beat me, strip me infront of the whole court and humiliate the Stark traitor’ she felt her breath coming out in short pants; unleashing her pain was cathartic but it still anguished her. Lord Bolton’s hand wrapped around one of her own, tethering her to reality as she revisited her memories, ‘the Queen was different, she didn’t like spectacles and making a show of how much pain she could provoke, instead I would sit there listening to her drink and talk until her words cut me open and made me feel inferior. I was the Stark traitor, no one would lift a finger to help me, not one. They all watched me get beaten day in and day out, and no one came for me’ 

Her tears flowed freely down her face, she was not sobbing; there was no energy for it, but the tears held the promise that if she cried enough the pain of the memories would go out of her system. Lord Bolton’s hand left her own and climbed up to cup her cheek, the thumb brushing off the tears. ‘No one will lay a finger on you again, Sansa. You won’t let them, the North wont let them’ She stared up at the sharpness in his mist-colored eyes, ‘ _I_ won’t let them’ 

A sound of surrender escaped her lips and she just leaned more into his touch, eyes shutting to savour the moment; his tenderness, his closeness, his solidity. The feel of her lord pulling Sansa closer to him was abruptly interrupted by an aggressive knocking on his bedroom door. He flinched away from her quickly, eyeing the door. ‘Yes?’ 

‘Father!’ It was Ramsay, Sansa shook in her thin nightgown, Ramsay right outside their door. He was shouting and very angry, she stared wide eyed at Roose Bolton, waiting for him to say something. Suddenly, Ramsay aggressively pushed the door open. 

The air of violent hostility evaporated into chilly amusement when the Bolton bastard found Sansa sitting in the middle of his father’s bed, while Lord Bolton stood facing him. 

‘How dare you barge into my rooms?’ Lord Bolton stood to his full height, his exposed wide chest imposing as a reminder to Ramsay of who was the better man. His voice was barely above a whisper. 

But Ramsay was undeterred, ‘oh no father, how dare _you_ My men have been stripped of their weaponry, my own rooms searched through like a criminal, how dare you?’ He screamed the last question with a deranged shriek. 

Sansa inhaled sharply at the scene unfolding before her. There it was; the culmination of her scheming with the records and using Theon to hide part of the supplies to incriminate Ramsay. The bastard turned his gaze at her with such venom, she thought he would rip her open right there. 

He laughed bitterly, ‘Oh! Have you finally told the little Stark bitch why she’s really here? Maybe I’m a little late to the ceremony, arent I?’ 

That seemed to get a reaction out of Lord Bolton because Sansa could see the way his back tensed. ‘Dont speak another word, Ramsay. Shut up’

‘I wont shut up, fa—‘

Lord Bolton raised a hand to cut off his son, ‘— you buggering bastard of mine. I gave you all those men, those weapons, the liberty to carry my banners and do the bidding of house Bolton, and you repay me by scheming with the Lannisters?’ 

Ramsay’s eyes widen momentarily, and then flit between Sansa and his father. ‘These are our banners father. I would not dishonor you’ 

Lord Bolton took a few steps forward, menacing in his stalking, but to her horror, Sansa glimpsed the dagger at Ramsay’s hip being reached for. ‘These are my banners, not yours. You’re a Snow, not a Bolton’ 

The bastard’s eyes flash with such hatred, spurring Sansa to do something. As she slowly straightened in bed, her hand brushed against a cold edge under the pillows— a dagger. She clutched it tightly in her right hand as she slipped off the bed and came to stand next to Lord Bolton. ‘The grains you were sent to fetch from the Dreadfort are missing’ she spoke loudly and clearly, surprising the two men. 

Ramsay turned towards her his wrathful force, ‘are you accusing me of theft, you whore? has he set you up to this or are you taking on your new role quite diligently?’ 

She dismissed his cryptic words, choosing to dissect them later, but for now she knew where this was going and she needed to stall until the guards arrived. ‘Not only theft, my lord, treason’

‘You’ve sent our grain supplies to the Lannisters, trying to legitimise yourself, bastard?’ Lord Bolton spat out, ‘I’ve given you everything, and you betray me for a title, you whore’s son’ 

Ramsay knew he was being set up. Sansa could see it in the cornered way he looked, eyes flitting all over the room quickly, manically and violently. ‘You never loved me, father. At some point, I realised I should never have cared for you either’ the bastard Snow stalked towards his father, Sansa noticed the sly way he extracted his dagger and slipped it into the sleeve of his shirt, ‘I knew you would eventually try to get rid of me once I had done your bidding, but I won’t let you’ 

His attack seemed slow, but only because Sansa had anticipated it; just as he raised his right arm and the point of the dagger glinted in his sleeve aiming for his father, Sansa rushed forward with her weapon and buried it as deep as her strength allowed— the feel of flesh yielding to the blade and the rush of violence in her bloodstream shocked Sansa. She didn’t expect blood to feel so warm and hot as it spilled over her hand, Ramsay croaked by her ear but she couldn’t hear him; she couldnt even hear the shouting of Lord Bolton. All she could feel was the rushing of warm blood coating her hands, and Ramsay’s body slackening on her until she could not carry them both as the two of them slipped to the ground. 

She had killed a man. 

Lord Bolton kept calling her name, but she didnt answer, the feel of Ramsay lifeless at the other end of her dagger was crippling. Eventually, she noticed the presence of guards in the room. They pulled Ramsay Snow’s bleeding body off her, and then carried his disembowelled corpse out. Strong, callused hands wrapped around her shoulders, prompting Sansa to her feet. 

‘Sansa, are you hurt?’ His voice was clipped, restrained, and terrifying. 

She had killed a man.


	14. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose comforts Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A monsoon of fluff and angst. But mostly angst.
> 
> Im so happy with everyone’s response to the last chapter!! Thank you all for your comments xx

The morning chill settled through her bedroom. Sansa sat on the bed of furs Lord Bolton had fashioned infront of the fireplace, when he had carried her to her room, but the shivers wrecking through her body were ceaseless. Alone in the room, she was instructed to wait whilst he addressed the turbulent events of the morning. 

Sansa had killed a man. A monster, yes, but he had bled on her— red and warm liquid reminding her that she had spilled his blood, as his father had spilled Robb’s. She shut her eyes and pressed her hands to her face. Ramsay was to be exiled for treason, it was what Sansa had planned for. She did not expect him to try to murder his father— his own kin! She was thankful that she had found out where Lord Bolton hid his weapon under his pillow, for without it he’d be choking on his blood around Ramsay’s dagger. Shuddering at the image, Sansa realized that she cared for Lord Bolton. 

She had not reached for the dagger because she wanted him to be indebted to her for saving his life. She had not pierced his son’s belly with it to avenge her family, or protect the man whose survival was closely tied with her own–– Sansa would be fooling herself if she tried to ignore how frightened she was for his safety, because frankly she _cared_ for him. But how could she explain this to him? 

_I plotted to frame your bastard for treason, but I’ve saved your life._

The door unlocked from the outside, and Sansa turned to watch Lord Bolton shut it behind him. He stood in the entryway, holding himself tall and straight but she could discern the exhaustion marring his expression. They held each others’ gazes for a few heartbeats until Lord Bolton glanced away and moved to take off his jerkin. 

‘Where is Theon?’ She managed to croak out.

His gaze flashed at her, stilling in his ministration. He started to stalk towards her, the jerkin hanging open and exposing his chest underneath. ‘You’ve just saved my life, Sansa’ he sat infront of her on his knees, staring at her in anger, ‘and all you can think of is that turncloak?’ 

She shut her eyes against the intensity in his gaze and tried again. ‘Where is Theon?’ 

He was so still. Sansa thought he had left the room, but when she opened her eyes he was still there, grinding his teeth together before finally straightening up. ‘He is in the kennels, unharmed’ 

She needed to come clean with him, but how could she? She watched him sit at the other end of the bedroom on the edge of her bed, his elbows on his knees as he stared at his boots. ‘Lord Bolton’ he didnt move his head, only glanced up at her; moonlight eyes turbulent. 

‘I-I’m sorry’ _I’m sorry I schemed. I’m sorry I murdered your last remaining heir. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry that I care about you, I really do_. 

He stared incredulously at her. ‘You saved my life. You could’ve died in the process, but you moved for the killing blow. I am the one who should apologize, I put you in danger when I had sworn to protect you’ 

The raw honesty in his tone and demeanour shook something deep inside Sansa she had not been aware it existed within her. She shrugged off the furs, and moved towards Lord Bolton. He straightened as Sansa slid onto his lap, surprising them both by wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face in his neck. The sobs wrecked her body, finally assaulting the silence she had instilled in herself after what she had done. But now, it was unstoppable. 

Lord Bolton’s hands slowly slid over her waist, pressing her closer to his chest as she spent her tears. Sansa felt grateful for his accommodation of her turbulent reaction, but what else could they both do? She had killed a man, how does one go back from that. His hand brushed her face gently now, ‘what can I do for you, Sansa? Tell me something I could do to put you at ease’ 

His voice was barely a whisper, the emotion unrecognisable but there for her to acknowledge. She looked up at him through wet eyes and just couldn’t find the words. His mouth was set in a grim line, expression cleared of all emotions. His hand caressed her cheek until he brushed her hair away from her face, that was when Sansa fluttered her eyes closed in relief. She thought he noticed her reaction, because he slightly raised his eyebrows at it and then deposited Sansa on the bed to get up. 

She watched through tear-stained eyes as he rummaged her dressing table until he found her hair comb. He moved them to the end of the bed, Lord Bolton’s back straight against the headboard, with Sansa between his legs as she gave him her back. The feel of his fingers grazing her back as he collected tendrils of hair in his palm, instantly put Sansa at ease. When he began brushing her hair in a tender and methodical fashion, she sagged against his chest. 

‘Better?’ He murmured.   
She hummed her approval. 

It wasn’t like Catelyn Stark brushing her hair; there was no sense of purpose or duty— getting ready for bed or safeguarding the Tully beauty. No. Lord Bolton brushed her hair unhurriedly, carefully— as if every brush carried a word he could not utter, a touch he could not give her, and Sansa could interpret it. He was reassuring her, pacifying her, encouraging her through this small act. 

‘You’ve saved me’ he reiterated for the third time this morning. ‘For that, I owe you my life. Ramsay Snow was my bastard, but he was not the heir. I needed him to do things I could not do, he had his uses but he was becoming too dangerous’ the fierceness of his tone brought more tears to her eyes, he laid down the hair comb and turned her around to look at him. She felt like a child, sitting on her knees between his legs as he held her chin up. ‘You should not feel remorse, Sansa. I was expecting it, Ramsay was growing tireless. Killing changes a person, that is true. But it should not unmake you, you were strong today, remember that’ 

She swallowed another sob and nodded. 

‘I’m not angry with you’ he tapped her on the chin to gain her attention. Her throat constricted heavily, and she only climbed over his leg until she lay beside him. Slipping under the furs, Sansa wrapped one arm around his waist, huddling in his side as she hummed a tune for the both of them— but mostly for herself to ease her pain. Lord Bolton settled into her embrace and simply sat there brushing his fingers through her hair as she hummed a song into his side. 

*** 

No one held a funeral burial for Ramsay Snow. Her maids informed her that Lord Bolton had not bothered with a Northern funeral, instead had placed Ramsay’s prepared corpse in the middle of the clearing and set fire to it. Clearly reminding everyone that this is how he dealt with traitors— son or others. Sansa had asked for Theon to be removed to more suitable quarters, and to be treated as part of her retinue; bathed, fed, and dressed well. He had proved his loyalty and honesty, Sansa had to keep her end of the bargain now and protect him. She noticed that her excessive occupation with Theon’s wellbeing annoyed Lord Bolton, but he barked orders at his soldiers to do whatever she wished for the Ironborn. 

Her shock at Ramsay’s death did not leave her for quite some time. The Lords and Ladies visiting had began to depart, eyeing her soulless gaze in suspicion, but Sansa had stood beside Lord Bolton with her head held high to bid them farewell, all except the Freys; more feverish than ever to spring a marriage on the Warden of the North now that he was heirless. In the morning Sansa performed her duties as host to the Freys, attending breakfast and dinners, walking with the lords and ladies around the grounds, biting her inner cheek when Little Walda’s touch lingered too much on Lord Bolton. 

Night after night, she padded to his bedroom, and without his permission Sansa would slip under the covers and settle herself into his arms. If he was up, he would silently accept her need for security and reassurance that everything was alright. If he was asleep, Sansa would push herself between his arms until Lord Bolton, teetering between dream and reality, would accommodate her in his bed and pull her further into his arms. Sansa convinced herself that she sought him out of guilt, and fear. But she was lying to herself; she was only not ready to think clearly about all that elapsed between; all that is said and unsaid. Instead, she rubbed her lips against Lord Bolton’s skin and fell asleep to the heavy and steady beating of his heart.


	15. Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Roose swim into new waters. Winterfell expects a new guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i’m torturing you guys but next one gets JUICYYYY 
> 
> Thank you all for commenting and reading x

It had been almost two weeks since the feast, and still the Freys remained in Winterfell. Their presence had shifted overtime from being a reminder of their treachery to an irritating nuisance for Sansa. They weren’t interested in her, she was the last of the Starks; nothing of value to them, and so they stayed clear of her. Which was alright for Sansa, however, she had no company in Winterfell but Lord Bolton, and he was either in his War council or entertaining Little Walda. The only time they had together were those few hours in the morning when she helped him with his correspondence and going over the castle’s records or at night when Sansa snuck into his bedroom. 

But ofcourse she hadn’t sought his bed in over two days— a sort of open proclamation that she was irritated with the Frey’s presence, and secretly upset that he hadnt asked her why she didnt visit him the first night she slept in her bed instead of his. And so in response to Lord Bolton’s apparent uninterest in her, Sansa had avoided going to his bed the second night in a row, instead sat by her fireplace and escaped from dreams of Ramsay gurgling on his blood, screaming at her. 

_Have you told her why she’s really here, father?_ Ramsay had laughed at his father, at Sansa in her ignorance. Why was she under Lord Bolton’s protection? Why had the Lannisters given her over to him? She hadn’t forgotten about Ramsay’s cryptic insinuations that there was something bigger underway. But all she could think of was how lonely she felt. 

The next morning she sat beside Lord Bolton in his solar, going through the correspondence and papers of the day, as if nothing had happened; as if she wasn’t irritated with him or the Freys, but she was mostly annoyed with herself. 

‘Have you been sleeping well?’ The question was nonchalant, tossed over his perch over the desk, scribbling something with concentration as if the answer was irrelevant to him. 

Sansa seethed, ‘I thank your lordship for inquiring’ 

She watched him put down his quill and turn towards her with a smile that was more irritated than amused. ‘Is that anger, lady Sansa?’ 

‘No’ she muttered, embarrassed with herself as she buried her face into the parchment before her. ‘I havent slept well for the past two days, my lord’ 

‘And are my services no longer required?’ It was the mocking tone, but laced with something else Sansa couldnt quite pinpoint, but it called out for its mirror inside her. ‘Well, you’ve been busy, my lord, I don’t wish to disturb you’ 

‘What am I busy with, pray tell?’ 

‘the War council’ without missing a heart beat Sansa looked up at him, ‘and Little Walda’ 

‘Aha’ he leaned back in his chair, one hand tucked under his chin as he met Sansa’s gaze. ‘You don’t approve of my would-be betrothed?’ 

She hated herself for it but her heart sank into her ribs, ‘So you will marry her’ 

Something on her face caught his attention. Lord Bolton’s gaze flitted over her expression as if he was trying to see right through her— open her up and make her confess. ‘Nothing is set in stone yet, but the Freys have promised me quite the sum of money’ he smiled at her icily, ‘it would make me a rich man’ 

‘A _richer_ man’ she corrected bitterly, ‘you’re Warden of the North, do you really need their money?’ 

‘Maybe I need someone’s company’ the way his voice dipped into velvety whispering, made warmth pool to her stomach. Sansa knew that with all the stillness and calmness Lord Bolton wrapped around himself, he still crossed a very lines of propriety— cursing infront of her, touching her, undressing her; even if she let him at times. But Sansa felt that this conversation put them on a precarious threshold she was afraid to cross. 

‘Company?’ She slowly pushed her chair back and started to move away from him but was stopped when his hand slipped around her wrist. Pulling her to stand between his legs as he pushed his chair away from the table, Lord Bolton’s misty grey eyes stared up at her in silent amusement. ‘You are a high born lady, but surely your mother spoke to you of the manner of things between a man and woman’ 

Sansa blinked down at him several times, unable to grasp where this was going; but the growing tension between them was palpable. She wondered whether he could feel the rushing blood of her veins where he held her wrist. She tripped over her words several times before she finally managed to speak, ‘I am aware, yes’ 

‘What are you aware of?’ A muscle jumped in his jaw; Sansa couldn’t tell if he was amused or barely restraining something he wanted to say. ‘You’re my ward, your preparation for all aspects of life interests me; being in King’s Landing in your formative years has set you back quite a bit. But you’ve shown potential, Sansa. What ever else you wish to understand or talk about, I am here to listen’ 

‘I’ll t-think about your proposition, my lord’ she needed to get away from the heat radiating from his body, or else— she didn’t know what she’ll do. If Septa Mordane or her mother had heard this exchange between young Sansa and this Northman, they would’ve slapped both Sansa and Roose Bolton. ‘I best go attend to my duties’ 

He let her go, with a disagreeable frown upon his expression, but Sansa dismissed it. ‘Tell the Freys to leave’ She threw behind her back as she stood by the doorways. 

She glanced over her shoulder to see his reaction, he got up from his seat and stalked towards her. Sansa let herself be turned around and stood still as his callused hand rubbed against her cheek gently, tucking her escaped tendrils of hair behind an ear. They held each other’s gazes for a moment; his searching grey eyes on her fascinated Tully blue until Lord Bolton surprised Sansa by leaning forward and pressing his lips softly against the corner of her mouth— mirroring Sansa’s own kiss for him a while back. Her skin burnt where he touched her; the hand at her elbow, the fingers grazing her jaw, the inflamed corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes to savour the feel of him, and to her amazement, Sansa wondered what it would be like if Lord Bolton had moved a few inches to the right and kissed her properly on the mouth. When she opened her eyes to stare up at her lord, Sansa wondered if he could read her thoughts from the way she looked up at him. 

‘You need sleep, Sansa’ he took a hesitant step back, slowly letting go of his lingering hold on her. ‘Stop worrying about the Freys and come to bed from now on’ 

She nodded sharply and slipped out of the solar. As she walked out to the stables to ready her mare for the day, Sansa wondered if anyone could see an imprint of Lord Bolton’s kiss on the corner of her mouth. She felt him on her skin the whole day. 

*** 

Theon was waiting for her in the godswood once she had returned from her ride. They had reached an understanding in the wake of Ramsay’s death. Theon Greyjoy was well-dressed as a lord’s son, freshly bathed with his hair brushed and clean. It seemed that a few weeks’ food and good sleep had done him good, filling the hollowness of his cheeks and erasing the perpetual look of broken hunger in his eyes. She sat beside him by the weirdwood’s tree trunk, shoulder to shoulder as he quietly observed their surroundings. 

‘I never could come near the godswood’ he finally spoke, Sansa understood he meant _back then_. 

She smiled in acknowledgement, urging him on to speak. It had taken them a while to broach into simple conversation without the ugliness of their experiences marring it. ‘It is still the same. Sometimes, I fool myself into thinking I’ll find father here mending his longsword’ 

‘Me too’ Theon sagged against the tree trunk. ‘What now, Sansa?’ 

‘You can go back home. I can ask Lord Bolton to provide you with what you need to reach the Iron Islands’ 

Theon shook his head dismissively. ‘No. I can’t run away from what I’ve done. What about Bran and Rickon? What about Arya?’ 

_Lord Bolton will help me_. ‘You’ve suffered enough, Theon. You don’t need to prove anything’ she held his hand in hers in reassurance, he stared back at her with tears in his eyes. 

‘I can’t leave without fixing what I have done. I will stay by your side, Sansa Stark’ his hand squeezed her back, ‘Stannis Baratheon will try to take the North, if I cannot help you find your brothers, then I will serve to protect you when war is at Winterfell’s door’ 

Tears spilled down Sansa’s face, but she managed to smile through the intensity of the emotion. ‘If you wish to stay, then I welcome you, Theon Greyjoy’ 

They chuckled gratefully at each other, until Sansa sobered up and peeked up at Theon. ‘Do you think we have enough men to hold against Stannis Baratheon?’ 

‘I don’t know’ the resignation in his voice chilled her. 

Hearing the crush of boots, Sansa glanced up at the stalking frame of Lord Bolton. He held a scroll in one hand, and a grim expression on his face. _Dark wings, dark words_. 

Theon quickly clambered up to bow to Lord Bolton, followed by Sansa who Lord Bolton offered her a hand to stand. ‘I’ve looked everywhere for you’ 

She dimpled up at him like a child caught in a wrongful act. ‘Forgive me, my lord. Is there something you wanted?’ 

He stared between her and Theon in contemplation, before the tensed stance eased and he presented her with the scroll. Again, Sansa immediately recognised the unopened seal; the mockingbird. 

‘Lord Baelish?’ Both men stared up at her in surprise. ‘Lord Baelish sent me a raven?’ 

‘It is addressed to you, I believe’ lord Bolton sounded irritated, as well as suspicious. However, it lightened Sansa’s heart knowing he had not cracked the seal open and read the letter before her. 

She ripped her gaze away from Lord Bolton’s expectant expression and turned to read Littlefinger’s address to her. 

_Dearest Sansa. It has been quite some time since I’ve last seen you, and it eases my mind knowing that you have made it to the North; your home. As you read this letter, I will be on my way, along with the Knights of the Vale, to you and to Winterfell. Your friend, Petyr._

She passed the letter to Lord Bolton. ‘He is coming to Winterfell’ 

‘Yes’ Lord Bolton’s intelligent eyes scanned the parchment quickly then looked up at Sansa. ‘He had informed me already of his march with the Vale’s forces, I dont see why he felt the need to inform you’ 

_But why are you two corresponding in the first place?_ , Sansa wondered. Theon also seemed interested at the contents of the letter, he looked at her for an explanation. ‘You can say that Lord Baelish has been a sort of friend of mine in King’s Landing, not a very good friend, but one nevertheless’ 

She only received a grunt from Lord Bolton as response. He turned to Theon Greyjoy and dismissed him with the task of overseeing their new guests’ bedrooms to be readied. As he escorted Sansa to their dinner, Lord Bolton murmured in irritation, ‘I gather we’ll expect your good friend by the morrow’ 

‘He wasn’t very good’ Sansa tried to quip, looking up to see if he would laugh. 

Lord Bolton _almost_ rolled his eyes at her.


	16. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa surprises everyone, even herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok everyone, buckle up.

Littlefinger’s host was spotted over the horizon when the inhabitants of Winterfell woke. Sansa had felt Lord Bolton nudge her with his sharp nose when his guard shouted through the door the Vale host’s arrival. Momentarily freezing at the fear of being caught in the Warden’s bed, Sansa eased into the mattress once she realised the sleepy, lethargic gestures of Lord Bolton at her shoulder. She turned her head to look at him only to find that the great lord was still grasping at some lost sleep, eyes closed but with furrowed brows. ‘You have to get dressed’ he muttered drowsily, and Sansa felt that odd fluttering in her heart again. 

She left him tossing in bed and sneaked back into her rooms to get ready to welcome Lord Baelish. What was the Master of Coin, now her aunt Lysa’s husband, doing in the North? Sansa wracked her mind for any sort of clue he could’ve dropped her before he had sailed away and left her to fend on her own in the lion’s den— but she came out with nothing. Littlefinger has always been elusive, his current actions were nothing out of the ordinary. 

In Winterfell’s courtyard Sansa stood tall beside Lord Bolton’s imposing frame. She was dressed in her usual Tully blue colours, with furs fastened at her chin, and her hair in a tight plait resting against her shoulder. She had not missed Lord Bolton’s appreciative glance over her frame, Sansa found herself awaiting these once-overs eagerly. He was at ease next to her, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but beneath it all she could sense the ferocious Bolton power simmering; the longsword glittering at his hip, cloaked in his leather jerkin with the upside-down flayed man’s crest imprinted across his chest— Lord Baelish would think twice before crossing him. 

The gates of the stronghold opened, and Sansa held her breath in expectation. Littlefinger rode at the front of the host, regal in his usual brown attire, with the mockingbird pin glistening by his throat. Sansa was gripped with a strange emotion— seeing him in the North was surreal, but then her return home was also surreal. And yet there they are, leagues away from the clutches of the Lannisters, staring brazenly at each other and no longer hiding in the cloisters or the gardens for a chat. Lord Baelish looked like he had drank the wine of the seven gods, animated eyes took in all that was before him. She noticed how the wide smile he welcomed her with took on a reserved edge once he had dismounted and stood before Lord Bolton. 

‘My lord’ Sansa watched Lord Bolton’s mild nod at Littlefinger’s bow. ‘The Bolton’s north is quite chilly’ 

Lord Bolton’s face did not shift an inch, ‘I believe it has always been like that, Lord Baelish. Am I correct, Lady Sansa?’ 

The two men turned towards her, the blood rushed heavily in her ears but she maintained her poise and smiled. ‘Lord Baelish, it is good to see you’ 

Littlefinger moved towards her, reached for her hand and planted a chaste kiss on its palm. Sansa instantly flushed, and met Lord Bolton’s gaze over Littlefinger’s inclined head. His grey eyes looked like hardened stones. 

Littlefinger straightened but kept Sansa’s hand in his, ‘You are a sight for sore eyes, my sweetling’ 

Hoping for any sort of diversion, Sansa ignored Lord Bolton’s burning gaze and focused on Littlefinger. ‘Is my aunt and sweetrobin with you, my lord?’ 

With an overly theatrical display of anguish, Lord Baelish’s other hand clasped Sansa’s in comfort. ‘Dear Sansa, I thought you were informed. My beloved wife had passed away recently’

Sansa shuddered out a breath. _Aunt Lysa_ Sansa would have asked the Hound to take her to the Vale if she had agreed to escape King’s Landing with him. But Aunt Lysa was dead; another family member leaving Sansa by herself. She glanced towards Lord Bolton, and the softening around his eyes informed her of his sympathy for her, and most importantly, that he did not know. 

‘You must’ve been a good husband to her, my lord’ Sansa mustered the courage to speak, ‘and what of my cousin?’ 

Lord Baelish gestured towards the litter being carted in. ‘Sweetrobin is quite ill, has been for quite sometime, but he insisted on seeing his beautiful cousin—‘  
‘—and what is your position in the Vale at the moment, Lord Baelish?’ Lord Bolton cut him off with an impatient drawl. 

‘I am the Lord Protector of the Vale until my dear step-son comes of age, ofcourse.’ Lord Baelish had the guarded smile on his lips, the one Sansa knows was reserved for Cersei and Joffrey when they were in one of their horrid moods. He turned to Sansa again, ‘I do not only come bearing bad news, Sansa. There is something else you’ll be quite interested to know.’ 

She held her breath. ‘Joffrey Baratheon is dead’ 

Both men had their eyes trained on her; waiting for her to slip into a wild reaction, to wail against the heavens for justice, to curse the dead king’s name. All Sansa could do is extricate her hand from Littlefinger’s and inquire quietly, ‘how?’ 

‘Choking on poisoned wine during his wedding to Lady Margery Tyrell, the rumours in King’s Landing say it was the Imp’s doing’ Littlefinger looked far too smug, but at the moment she didn’t care. Joffrey was dead. At his own wedding; just like Robb. There was a certain irony that brought a smile to Sansa’s face. 

‘I never took Lord Tyrion for a murderer’ she wondered aloud.  
‘You can never trust a Lannister’ Lord Bolton supplied knowingly.  
Littlefinger chuckled, ‘and you can't trust a Bolton either’ 

Sansa’s eyes shot wide open, and she thought every Bolton soldier on foot would train his weapon towards Littlefinger for his disrespect. But instead Lord Bolton turned on Littlefinger with a terrifying smile; one Sansa had never seen before— instead had only heard about in Old Nan’s tales and the fabrications Arya made about House Bolton. It terrified her. 

‘You might as well be more cautious then, Lord Baelish. Winterfell is Bolton now’ 

Sansa watched the humour sharpen in Littlefinger’s eyes. 

*** 

The dinner affair that night was rowdy and boisterous. Music played and the men danced excitedly with the women, capturing Sansa’s rapt attention. It had been some time since she had seen quite jovial feasts and _actually_ enjoyed them. 

As the guest of honor, Lord Baelish sat on the high table with Lord Bolton and Sansa. She could discern that they were talking of Stannis Baratheon’s position by the wall. 

‘It is inevitable that he will grow tired of Lord Commander Snow’s talk of wights. Which is why I have brought the Vale knights, my lord. To join forces, the North and Vale have always been strong allies in times of war’ as Lord Bolton mulled over Littlefinger’s heartened proposition, Sansa glanced at her companion in King’s Landing. 

‘Lord Commander Snow’ her heart skipped a beat, ‘Is that Jon? He is commander of the night’s watch now?’ 

Littlefinger nodded. ‘Yes, Sansa. He is quite an inspiring leader for all those criminals and rapists’ 

She dismissed the ironic tone and turned to Lord Bolton, ‘Jon is family, he’s my only surviving brother now. Would it be possible to send for him?’ 

Grey eyes scrutinised her blue Tully ones with such fierceness that Sansa felt the air knock out of her lungs. ‘He is not your brother, he is a Snow; a bastard, who is, need I remind you, entertaining Stannis Baratheon, the pretender king’ 

Sansa stared back at him incredulously. He sounded _angry_. When she looked up at Littlefinger, Sansa saw that he was watching their little exchange with intense scrutiny. 

‘Speaking of Bastards, my lord, I’m very sorry for you loss. Lord Ramsay was a formidable soldier’ 

Lord Bolton grunted in response. ‘He was a traitor’ 

She pursed her lips and looked at the dancing again. ‘Sansa, would you care to dance?’ 

She ignored the feel of Lord Bolton’s gaze and nodded smilingly to Littlefinger. ‘Ofcourse, my lord’ 

Sansa let Lord Baelish escort her with one hand on the small of her back. The two of them ignored the looks they received, but to her irritation Sansa found Lord Bolton head towards the Frey table. She reprimanded herself for looking. The feel of Lord Baelish’s arm around her waist, brought her back to reality. When she looked up at him, she found that he was smiling but his eyes were all too serious. 

‘You look beautiful, Sansa’ he murmured softly, ‘You’ve been treated well here, I suppose?’ 

‘Why would you care for my well being, Lord Baelish? You’ve left me in King’s Landing’ she didn’t like how bitter she sounded. 

‘No, Sansa’ his hand squeezed hers, ‘I was waiting for the right moment, i had plans of whisking you out of there, but Bolton’s plan foiled mine’ 

‘Plan?’ 

Littlefinger looked at her pointedly, almost disappointed with her. ‘Has it occurred to you why you are back in the North, sweetling?’ 

Ramsay had asked the same question, Sansa realised. She glanced at Lord Bolton standing over Little Walda’s chair, a charming smile on his face. He never smiled at her like that, ever, even when she was in his arms. ‘Lord Tywin thought that making me the ward of my brother’s killer would torture me’ 

‘That is plausible’ Littlefinger smiled in acknowledgement, but he pushed her further— it all felt like being back in King’s Landing again, instructing her after a beating or an ugly encounter with Cersei. ‘But the young girl in my arms doesn’t seem very tortured’ 

She hated the blush forming at the tops of her cheeks, ‘Lord Bolton has been kind’ 

Littlefinger nodded, ‘that is what I find extremely interesting, Sansa, don’t you?’ 

She didn’t want to talk about Lord Bolton anymore, she didn’t want to think of what he was doing at the moment. Thankfully, their dance was interrupted by a young man tapping Littlefinger on his shoulder.

‘Lord Baelish, I was hoping you would introduce me to the Lady Sansa Stark’ She was met with glowing blue eyes, in a handsome face, framed by luscious blond curls. The young man looked like he had come out of one of her songs, Sansa couldn’t help but smile sheepishly. 

‘Aha, yes!’ Littlefinger excitedly stepped aside and pushed Sansa towards the young man. ‘Lady Sansa, meet the great-nephew of the Late Jon Arryn, Ser Harrold Hardyng’ 

Ser Harrold smiled brilliantly at Sansa, ‘please, call me Harry, my lady’ 

She curtsied delicately, eyes slowly running over the knight’s frame. ‘Ser Harry’ 

Littlefinger smiled at them tightly, ‘I’ve had quite enough of dancing, Sansa, maybe Ser Harrold would take on the next dance?’ 

‘If my lady wishes it?’ One perfectly curled blond lock fell over his eyes, Sansa’s eyes bounced from it to Lord Bolton at the other end of the hall. He stood chattering with Little Walda, however, he gaze cut straight towards Sansa. 

An ugly feeling bubbled inside her, she whipped her gaze back to Ser Harrold and nodded with determination. ‘It would be my pleasure’ 

‘I’ll leave you two then’ the tone in Littlefinger’s words did not fly over Sansa’s head. She took note of it. But for now, she ignored Lord Bolton’s eyes on her and let Ser Harrold twirl her around the dance floor; feeling lightweight and adored for the first time in awhile, even if she was a fraud in this young man’s arms. 

*** 

She met Harry by the entryway to the godswood the next morning. She had promised him last night to show him around the grounds. He was dressed simply this morning, jerkin and breeches, and had forsaken his longsword. Sansa wondered if the smile he had so idiotically plastered on his face had anything to do with Littlefinger’s plotting. Nevertheless, she took his extended arm and guided him to sit under the weirwood tree. 

‘Are you sure Lord Bolton wouldn’t mind me stealing his ward away from him?’ He had a smug look on his face as if he had skirted away in the middle of the night to have his way with her. 

Sansa had almost sighed, but checked herself and smiled innocently at Harry. Ofcourse she had noticed how forceful the geniality and flirtations of Ser Harrold Hardyng were. Sansa had her eyes wide open now that it was morning, and her judgement wasn't clouded by wine and irrational anger towards Lord Bolton. 

‘He’s far too busy with Lord Baelish’ She thought she had discerned a certain emotion in Roose Bolton’s gaze yesterday when Harry had twirled her on and on in dances as the night progressed. Maybe she had imagined his irritation. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe he simply thought she was silly to fall for Harry’s blatant flirtations. But Sansa wasn’t a simpleton girl from the North anymore; she was Sansa Stark, she’d gone through seven hells and back. She could see through Littlefinger’s plotting; Harrold was being paraded around her. Something was odd, and although she could not pinpoint it exactly, she knew she had to be one step ahead of everyone in this game; she would not be trampled on anymore. 

Harry was already in the middle of a tourney story where he had bested all, but Sansa was feeling too fidgety to sit so still and do nothing. She had not visited Lord Bolton’s bed last night, she was so irrationally angry with both herself and him. And yet she could not get him out of her mind, the feel of his lingering touches, his lips at the corner of her mouth; and how her body burned in her bed as she thought of him. She wanted _something_ ; but she was afraid Lord Bolton would never give it to her. He had never even smiled at her as he did to Little Walda. 

Staring at Harry’s animated tourney story telling expression, She leaned in closer and thought _why not?_ , she always wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. And she was feeling so miserably alone. Joffrey’s kiss would never count; that abomination of a boy would haunt her forever but he will not overshadow her ambitions for a better life. Ser Harry looked like another Jeoffrey; gorgeous as a knight, blond with eyes the color of the ocean; every inch the gallant Dragonknight. But She was not a silly girl dreaming of knights anymore, she was smarter than that; even if she sometimes found herself dreaming of lords with grey eyes who never smiled back at her. 

‘I would bet my money on you, Harrold’ She murmured sweetly, ‘I can almost say with certainty that you could best Ser Loras himself quite easily’ 

He smiled down at her compliments, leaning closer into her space until he was breathing in the scent of her fiery colored hair. ‘Please, Sansa, call me Harry’ 

He was going to kiss her now, ‘Harry’ she repeated.   
She found herself lying on the grass with Harry pressed up above her, his lips had latched themselves onto hers and started kissing her with such abandon as if expecting her to just lie there and let him paw her up. He had one hand on her breast, pawing it almost clumsily; his jerky movements almost disappointed her. She had wanted to experiment with him what it would feel to be touched and held like that, but all Sansa could feel was uncomfortableness and utter frustration. 

One moment she was being pawed to the ground, the next she couldnt feel Harry’s body on her anymore. She glanced up from her heavy breathing and disoriented mess to see Lord Bolton glaring at the young lord he had in a neck choke. Young Harry was trying so hard to rid himself of Lord Bolton’s grip, clawing frantically at his neck. Sansa watched his face get redder and redder as Lord Bolton tightened his hold. He was staring at her pleadingly to ask her lord to let go of him; but she was rooted to her spot, speechless. The former finally tore his gaze from his victim to glare at Sansa’s sprawled position on the grass; she thought his irises had turned pitch-black with an emotion that made a fever break out all over her skin and her insides quiver. 

‘Get up’ he growled, grounding on his teeth in that manner of his. ‘Go to your room this instance, Sansa’ 

She’s on her feet in a second, trying to calm her racing heart from reacting so brazenly to Lord Bolton’s growling tone. She felt a wetness between her legs. ‘Yes, my lord’ 

When she’s almost out of sight, she turns around one last time to see Lord Bolton chuck the shrieking Harry against the weirwood tree very aggressively. 

***

She waited for a few hours until Lord Bolton calmed down to go see him, maybe try to explain herself. She stood in front of his door debating whether she wanted to wade into the brewing Bolton storm. _He'd never hurt me._ And she believed it. Shuddering out a shaky breath, Sansa pushed open the door to his solar. 

The first thing she noticed was the broken glass on the floor, following her gaze to the table she realised it was broken shards of a wine goblet. Parchment paper was tossed all over the room, Sansa thought he would come to regret the disorder later. Lord Bolton was sitting in his chair with a glass of red liquid being swirled erratically as he rubbed his hands against his forehead. 

'Lord Bolton' 

He took his time to glance up at her, but she could tell he was mildly intoxicated with wine. His gaze was flaming with whirring emotions; a mixture of anger, and something else. Sansa inhaled sharply at how his gaze made her feel all over in the secret crevices of her body. 'I thought I told you to go to your room' 

'I thought you didn't partake' she swung back at him, taking tentative steps towards him. 

He leaned back in his chair after having doused the entire cup in one chug. He kept his intense gaze trained on her until she was an arm away. 'I guess we were both surprised today' 

'I came to apologise about what you saw, my lord' 

'What did I see exactly, lady Sansa?' He ground out, eyes flashing again with increasing anger. 'Because I'd much like to erase the image of my ward mewling under that imbecile' 

She glared back at him. 'I wasn't mewling. At all.' 

'Then pray tell, what were you doing?' 

When she didnt respond on the spot as he wanted, Lord Bolton got up from his seat almost shakily and had to lean against the table— but he crowded the space around her. She was breathing him in, wine mingled with sandlewood and pure winter. She hoped her cheeks weren't as bright red as she was imagining. 

She waited until he stopped his roaming eyes from scrutinising every part of her face before she spoke. 'Harry..' 

' _Harry?_ ' he spat out, completely livid now. 

'Ser Harrold' she quickly amended, taking one step back that was met by him taking one step forwards, 'wanted me to show him the grounds and I couldn’t refuse him' 

'That still doesn't explain why he was slobbering all over you' 

'I wanted him to kiss me' 

His face drained of all emotion and he simply stood there leaning against the table, staring at her as if she grew another head. 'You wanted that boy to kiss you' 

'Not him exactly. I just wanted to know what it felt like. Kissing that is.' she glanced sheepishly at her hands, ‘He isn’t the ideal candidate, but I wanted to know the feeling’ 

His eyes swept over her but he had his mask of indifference that Sansa felt she could never penetrate. 'And how did it feel like?' 

Something lit up in her head. She was mad, completely and utterly mad to even consider this ruse; why would she want this? She peeked at his restrained expression to reassure herself then shifted her gaze to where his hand leaned against the table. ‘I cant explain it. Maybe..maybe I can show you, my lord?' 

That stunned him. He stood there frozen for a moment, staring down at her until he regained his wits. 'Show me' 

She felt like her heart was in her throat, beating erratically until she would fall into her lord's arm like a silly maid in the songs. But silly maids in stories never took a risky initiative as she was doing. Sansa rested one palm against Lord Bolton's hardened chest and stood up on her toes in order to reach him. He captured her lips before she was ready; it knocked the breath from her lungs. His lips were soft against hers, moving rhythmically as the kiss suddenly deepened and Sansa found herself pressing against Lord Bolton. His mouth was urging her on, extracting moans from an unexperienced Sansa until she helplessly keened when his tongue gained passage into her mouth. And then, she felt the needy way he twisted the fabric of her dress in his fists behind her back, crushing her soft body to his hard one. His tongue explored her, spurring her to meet it with her own until she was making all sorts of sounds begging him for something, anything.

She remembered one more thing Ser Harry had done. She grabbed Lord Bolton's hand and brought it up to her breast. This time he was groaning as he fondled her, slowly tweaking the hard nipples until she'd moaned so loudly. Lord Bolton kept his intense ministrations on her nipples, pulling away from kissing her for only a second to ask, 'did it feel like this?' 

She felt the dampness between her legs intensify by the ruggedness of his tone and the clouded desire in his gaze. Sansa leaned into his touch, wanting his hand to go rougher on her, to hold her entire breast. 'Not like this.' she whimpered out when she felt him lick her bottom lips. 

He smiled against her face, and then she felt him push his hardness against her belly. Sansa shivered in his arms, eyes fluttering shut against the feel of him. She had never seen or thought of a man’s private parts before, and so the feel of Lord Bolton’s manhood twitching against the softness in her belly was maddening. 

'Sansa' the sound of her name on his lips when they were so wrapped up in each other made her back arch, pressing her more into his steady form; rubbing herself against him until he was groaning out her name again and again. 

'Please' she managed to croak out, requesting something she couldn’t quite ask for yet, but it was as if he heard the desperation in her voice and it had woken him up. He tore himself away from her and stepped behind his chair. 

She was aching all over; her nipples chafing against her bodice, and there was an incessant throbbing between her legs that was driving her insane. She kept her gaze on her lord. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his nose flaring ferociously. 

'Please go to your room, Sansa' 

_Please_? 

The gruffness in his voice made her aching body involuntarily take a few steps towards him until he stilled her with a cutting motion to stop. 'Go to your room, lock your door, and never speak to that _boy_ again' he spat out. 

Sansa wanted him to look at her. Didn't he understand that she had realised she wanted him to kiss her? So badly that she would bait him with that pompous Harrold? 'I dont think I need to see him anymore' she said all too pointedly and politely. 

His eyes flashed at her then he glanced away. 'Lock your door' 

And the he gave her his back. 

Sansa felt tears prickling at her eyes, she had stepped over all sorts of instilled lessons of propriety and took a chance; and here Lord Bolton was— rejecting her. She carefully stepped over the broken shards of glass on the floor but something on the floor caught her attention. She grabbed it on her way out, slamming the door behind her. 

Once she had changed into her nightgown, and slipped into bed; tearing running down her face as mounting embarrassment and frustration from the wet feeling between her legs overwhelmed her, Sansa pulled out the Lannister letter she had found opened on the ground. She needed to read it. 

It was from Tywin Lannister. 

_We’ve played your game quite enough. The only reason we had agreed to this ruse of the Stark girl’s wardship was because you were an important asset, but you forget yourself, Lord Bolton. The Lannisters are the ones who have given you the North, have given you Sansa Stark ripe and ready for the taking so that the North would be under our control; and we can easily undo it all, and force the Boltons back to whatever freezing hell you all came from. We did not expect the Bolton lord to enjoy foreplay so much that he would forget to put his cock in his young bride. Marry the Stark girl or we will act accordingly._

Sansa shook violently in her bed, the remnants of Lord Bolton’s hungry lips still tingling on her ice cold skin. _Ripe and ready._


	17. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose visits Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roose is on the loose.

Roose Bolton woke with a thudding headache in an empty bed. He felt a certain loss at waking up without Sansa’s warm body pressed up to his, and it still confused him how much the Stark girl had affected him so. 

He was Warden of the North, the most powerful man in the region, and yet when Sansa Stark had climbed out of her litter in Moat Cailin, with a well-constructed mask of steel, Roose knew it would be no easy task convincing her to marry him. After the Red Wedding he and Tywin Lannister had a foul and intense exchange of letters, where Roose had asked for Sansa Stark in order to strengthen his position in the North, Tywin had agreed as he believed Roose to be the Crown’s creature, but what the men were at odds in was the nature of Sansa’s position if she were to come to the North. 

Roose suggested the wardship, but only as a ruse until Sansa would be settled in the North. He didnt disclose to Tywin how sick he was of blood, death, and wars, Roose Bolton wanted, no _craved_ , a new era; a beginning where the North would prosper and House Bolton would thrive for generations. And bringing a shrill and terrified wife to his bed as if she was lamb to the slaughter was not how Roose wanted to begin his new vision for the future. He remembered Tywin’s latest letter, urgent and disrespectful, for Roose to consummate the marriage. The Old Lion must’ve noticed the Crown’s vulnerable position with the death of the King; safeguarding Roose’s loyalty must be the top priority; they dont want Sansa running off with a claim for queenship of the realm. 

He shifted in bed, turning to look at the vacant space Sansa would usually occupy. The little wolf had come a long way, Roose realised, she had been steely and cold to his initial attempts at civility, but slowly as her ice melted around him, Roose began to see who Sansa Stark really was. She was inquisitive, brilliantly scholastic, and, he loathed himself for thinking it, quite amusing. He had thought that it would take her forever to warm up to him, the murderer of her brother and mother, the desecrator of House Stark, but she slowly sought his advice, listened to his teachings, and opened up to him on the abuses she had received in King’s Landing. 

He ground his teeth in anger. Every time he caught glimpses of bruises on her moon-white skin, Roose felt raging blood blind his vision. The thought of Sansa Stark, his Sansa, at the mercy of the Lannisters’ beck and call made him wish he would ride his stead to the capitol and run his sword through every single one of those lions. But he couldn’t. Irrationality held no place in Roose Bolton’s plan; he would bid his time until he was strong and influential enough to sever all ties with the Iron throne. For now, he had to focus on developing Sansa to her full potential, and wait patiently for the time to bring up the idea of marriage. 

However several things have come in the way of that particular plan, Roose thought morosely. Ramsay is no longer in the picture, so Roose had hoped that with the death of his buggering traitor of a bastard, Sansa would not be threatened by his son. Roose was concerned that Ramsay would ruin all his careful planning by blurting out his intentions of marriage to Sansa. It had taken him forever to show her that her place by his side was one of safety, comfort, and growth. And yet, with one obstacle gone, another resurfaced. Petyr Baelish. 

He had an audience with that slithering serpent after breakfast, he did not want to think of how he had paid rapt attention to the way Baelish watched Sansa with blatant desire in his eyes, and ofcourse how his innocent Sansa curtsied and smiled in return, and so he got up and dressed for the day. His headache slowly pulsed at the back of his head, but the wanton memory of Sansa moaning into his mouth brought him quickly into sobriety. He had tried to ignore the semi hardness he had woken up with, but now remembering how she had leaned into his touch, the moans he had extracted from her, her hardened nipples; Roose felt himself fully harden, his prick tenting against his breeches. He wanted her, he had wanted her ever since she set foot out to greet him from her litter with that stubborn and careful expression. 

Roose thought of all the times he had sat there watching her work on his exercises, and trying not to want her, watching her stain her chin and cheeks with ink, her brows furrowed in that concentrated expression of hers. He thought of the feast night when she had stood almost naked in his arms and let him trail his fingers over the map of her body; listening to her calm confessions. Roose thought of all the times he had to wake up with her wrapped around him, _dreaming_ of him as she moaned his name, and all he had wanted to do was bury his cock deep into her soft folds right then. He remembered how her body felt against him yesterday, shuddering and moaning every time he grazed against her. 

He couldn’t have her. Not yet. She was still young, inexperienced, and fragile; one wrong move and she would crash around him. Roose was beside himself with rage after she had left him in his solar last night— because of the recurring image of her under Ser _Harry_ , and the childish way he had reacted by drinking, and most importantly, how he had crossed all lines with Sansa. But gods, he wanted her, and she must’ve been terrified at the intensity of his response to her body and kisses; choosing to hide in her room instead of coming back to claim her sleeping spot in his bed like every night. 

Roose glared at that spot in his bed. He hadn’t had a proper taste of her, and already he was already acting like a cunt-worshipping fool. He shook all thoughts of Sansa and went out to his audience with Baelish. 

*** 

He thought he’d pay the dining hall a visit, possibly to check on Sansa. He tried to mask his disappointment when he couldn’t find her, but Baelish’s amused expression informed him that he noticed. 

‘Seems that you and I are the only early risers here’ Littlefinger declared as he got up, slipping the letter he was reading in a small pouch in his belt. ‘Care for a walk instead of being cooped up in a room?’ 

‘I thought the North was chilly’ his flat tone did not erase the small smile on Baelish’s face. 

They walked side by side to the parapets overlooking the courtyard of the castle. To his surprise, Roose caught sight of auburn hair below. Sansa was with Theon, leaning against a wooden post as she watched the Ironborn practice his archery. He couldn’t quite see her expression, but it was clear that her mind was elsewhere; the Greyjoy boy was speaking mid-training and Sansa was only nodding distractedly in response. He ignored the rising emotion in his chest, convincing himself it was not jealousy he was feeling, but something else. 

Baelish beside him followed his gaze and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘She looks well here’ 

_She is home_ , Roose wanted to spit out, but his soft-toned reply was the opposite. ‘Such keen eyes, Lord Baelish. But I don’t think we’re here to discuss my ward’ 

‘Ah yes, your ward’ Baelish turned his head slightly to the side, ‘Sansa is important, not only to me, ofcourse, but for the whole of the Seven kingdoms, therefore, it would be beneficial to discuss her position’ 

‘There is nothing to discuss. She is my ward, and her position is dictated by what she wants’ 

Baelish’s eyes glittered, ‘and is your lordship aware of what she wants?’ 

Roose moved his gaze to Sansa below. ‘She’s young and inexperienced still. She doesn’t know what she wants’ 

‘I disagree, my lord’ Baelish’s face turned serious for a moment, ‘a girl who survived King’s Landing and what came with it is not young and inexperienced, Sansa Stark is only pent up, what she needs is someone to provide space for her to thrive’ 

‘And ofcourse that someone is you, Baelish?’ 

Littlefinger smiled but it did not touch his eyes. ‘I am here to offer an additional army to battle Stannis Baratheon, nothing more’ 

‘I find that hard to believe. Is that an instruction from Tywin Lannister? Does he expect us to fight this war for him?’ Roose smiled imperceptibly, he noticed Baelish’s retreating step backwards. 

‘I came of my own accord’ the Lord Protector of the Vale declared, ‘You will not hold out against Stannis on your own provisions, and if the North falls, the pretender king will be at the Vale’s doorsteps and we too cannot defeat him alone’ 

He didn’t trust the serpent, but his words made sense. Roose mulled over the proposition until Baelish pushed further, ‘An alliance between the North and the Vale is what I propose, my lord’ 

If there was anyone who knew Littlefinger more than him, it would be Sansa. Roose needed to speak with her. He glanced away from Baelish dismissively and murmured, ‘I’ll consider it’ 

*** 

Sansa was not present at dinner either. Roose simmered in anger quietly as the men and women chattered idly around him. He sat mulling over all the reasons she could be avoiding him; embarrassment? Anger? Regret? He hated to admit it to himself but the idea of Sansa regretting their encounter made him feel a sort of disquiet dullness in his chest— an impatience. 

Little Walda marched up to his seat, probably provoked by one of her brothers to seek him out. Roose was quite done with the Freys, the only reason he had kept them around longer than usual was because they elicited a certain reaction out of Sansa that showed Roose a glimmer of progress. Was she jealous of Little Walda? He sometimes caught Sansa’s fiery glare piercing right through him, her flippant remarks about the times he spent with Walda, and the times where she shunned his company as an expression of that hostility towards the Frey marriage match. Roose wondered if she understood that it was jealousy that was fuelling her reactions or not. He ignored Walda’s aimless chattering; he found himself wishing she was someone else— someone who talked of songs and knights, who pursed her lips when she thought, and was stupidly stubborn. 

Roose excused himself abruptly, avoiding Baelish’s knowing gaze and the Freys’ impatient ones. He let his own legs carry him towards Sansa’s room. Standing infront of her door, Roose gave a perfunctory knock and waited patiently. He heard feet shuffling softly, as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened Roose found himself staring down at Sansa’s guarded expression. 

He watched the red creep up her neck, tainting her cheeks in a way that enhanced her beauty. She didn’t open the door any further, but stood there leaning against it as she tried to escape his eyes. 

‘I haven’t seen you all day’ he tried at conversation. 

She swallowed quite audibly, eyes downcast with her lashes resting against her cheeks. ‘I was in no mood to join you for dinner, my lord, i’m only a little tired’ 

He had schooled himself on the way that he would not touch her, but the impulse to grab her chin and make her look at him was too strong. Her intake of breath at his touch disclosed to him all he needed to know, Sansa was shy of him. In terror, her eyes wrestled with her timidity until she finally locked gazes with him. ‘Would you like me to send for the Maester?’ 

‘No!’ She exclaimed, then quickly doused her overreaction. ‘I’m not ill, my lord, just..just thinking’ 

‘Hmm’ he murmured simply, and let go of her. He noticed that she was already dressed in her prudish night-gown, how many times had he fisted it in his sleep in want? ‘Maybe I can lend you an ear, or were you preparing to sleep?’ 

Sansa took a step back and opened the door for him to enter. ‘You’re aware I can’t sleep alone’ 

‘Lets talk then’ he was always surprised at the amount of control he exhibited around Sansa, especially when all he wanted to do was push her onto her knees in bed and take her until he’s completely sated. But something about the careful and fragile energy she exuded checked his behaviour. ‘Is it about last night, Sansa?’ 

Her eyes quickly met his with incredulity and then shyly glanced away. She gave him a curt nod and sat infront of her dressing table. Roose stood infront of her, quite conflicted over how to proceed next. She had shown initiative in their encounter yesterday, but was that false bravado from what had happened with the buggering knight from the Vale? Or was it intellectual curiosity on her part to explore her sensuality? Or, dare he think, she was actually coming to terms with desiring him? 

Either way, Roose needed to say or do something now. He decided that since she had brought up the subject of kissing last time in a scholarly manner, he would follow her example. ‘Have you ever been intimate with another man or _boy_ , Sansa?’ He didn’t know how he’d react to any answer she might give. 

Her eyes flew wide open. ‘Intimate?’ 

‘Yes’ he took a step closer to her. 

‘No’ she muttered, and Roose hated the exhale that escaped him. ‘Joffrey kissed me once, though’ 

He couldn’t help but bring it up, ‘And Ser Harry’ 

‘And you’ their finally eyes met, the tension palpable. 

Roose grabbed both her hands and pulled her up to stand, facing them both towards the looking glass. He saw Sansa’s heaving chest, and felt her shaking between his arms. ‘And how did that make you feel?’ 

She let out a shuddering breath, and met his gaze in the reflection glass, ‘kissing you, my lord?’ 

‘If you want to use me as your example’ he nodded for her to continue. 

Hesitation got the better of her, and so Roose rubbed circles into her forearms with his thumbs; reassuring her until he felt her relax against his chest. ‘I felt strange’ 

‘Hmm’ he wracked his mind to see where he would go with this, ‘Good strange or bad strange?’ 

Sansa broke eye contact with him, and that was when he knew she finally understood. ‘Good’ 

Roose’s hand went to the base of her throat and slowly undid the laces there, he kept his eyes trained on her expression; he didn’t know what he was doing, but he needed her. Sansa shut her eyes, a frown forming between her brows as she labored in her breathing. Once her gown was unlaced, Roose pushed it aside, baring one rounded breast. He felt his prick harden in reaction to the sight of her pink nipples turning pert, he covered her breast with the palm of his hand and savored the whimper that escaped Sansa. ‘How does that feel? Good?’ 

She nodded, but that didn’t satisfy him. He squeezed her breast harder, ‘Yes’ she croaked. 

 

‘Very good, Sansa’ he murmured in her ear, ‘Now. Have you ever touched yourself?’ 

He felt the shock settle in her core once he started kneading her exposed breast. ‘O-one time’ 

Roose was so hard, he was barely restraining himself from rubbing into her. ‘Did you think about me while you touched yourself?’ 

‘I wasn’t thinking about anyone in p-particular’ She threw her head back against his shoulder and arched more into his hand.

‘Where would you like me to touch you, Sansa?’ brushing his lips against the shell of her ear, he could hear his own shallow breathing, ‘Show me’ 

He watched desire and propriety battle in her tensed expression through the looking glass, until she surprised them both by clutching his free hand and bringing it between her legs. ‘Please’ 

That undid him. Roose quickly pulled the nightgown around her midriff, brushing his fingers against the curls on her mound until he passed the barrier of her small clothes and sunk his digits into her wet folds. He groaned into Sansa’s neck when he realized how wet she is, his fingers spread her wide, lapping at the core of her wetness while his thumb teased the nub of nerves until Sansa shook against him. ‘How is that?’ 

She answered him by rubbing herself against his fingers jerkily, he could feel that she was close; his hand on her breast kneaded harder, falling in tow with the rhythm of his fingers until Sansa let out a guttural sound and Roose held her to his chest as she found her breathing again after chasing her orgasm. He brushed his nose against the arch of her neck and hummed in statisfaction, even if his uncomfortable stiffness was pressed against her back. ’Sansa’ he murmured, not sure what he wanted to say. 

She opened her eyes and stared at him through the mirror with a forlorn expression. ‘I know about Lord Tywin’s letter’ 

He stared back at her through the haze of lust, trying to fathom what she was saying. She slipped out of his grasp and turned to face him, ‘I read the letter, ordering you to marry me’ 

Before he could stop himself, Roose grabbed her forearm and pushed her against the dressing table, ‘you’re snooping through my belongings?’ 

‘It was on the ground, I wasn’t looking through anything’ her chin wobbled in fear but she glared up at him. ‘You’ve always been with the Lannisters, all this time, and I was so close to trusting you–– I believed you, but they tell you to cut my brother open, you do it. They tell you to bed Sansa Stark, and you do it.’ 

He let go of her and took a few steps back, eyes blazing with anger. She visibly shook with the force of her words, ‘I-I cared for you. But you’ve still betrayed me, like I was nothing to you’ 

‘Sansa’ He warned her, but her fists started to fall aggressively on his chest. 

‘you lied to me! you made me think you cared for me as well’ she said between clenched teeth, ‘Was this part of your plan too? Coming into my room and ruining me? I wanted to trust you!’ 

Roose didn’t know what came over him, but he clutched her wrists tightly against his chest and kissed her aggressively; trying to pour everything into that kiss. Sansa stilled momentarily against him, but Roose felt her respond by standing on her toes trying to gain better access. Their teeth clattered against each other in the midst of their fervor, causing them to pause for breath and respite. 

Roose sought her eyes, whispering quite clearly for her to listen, ‘I didn’t lie to you’  
She shook her head so miserably it plucked at something in Roose’s heart. He hated the foreign feeling. ‘I can’t trust you’  
‘I’ll explain, Sansa’ He didn’t know how, but he needed her to understand.  
‘Everything?’  
He nodded. 

***


	18. Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose and Sansa come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting from within the battlefield that is finals week. pray for my soul. 
> 
> thank you all for your comments xx

They talked well into the night, Sansa felt overwhelmed with all the information he was placing at her feet. She shivered in the robe she had slipped on, trying to create any distance between what had occurred between the two of them earlier and his openness now. Her skin was still on fire, and the core between her legs slowly pulsated in tandem with her erratic heartbeats; she had never felt that way before. Sansa could’ve stopped him any moment she liked— she was upset with him, feeling betrayed and had avoided him all day; but the moment he had knocked on her door, her body reacted on its own. And gods, she enjoyed it. 

She shook her head to focus on what she wanted to ask him. She sat on her dressing table’s stool, while Lord Bolton sat on the edge of her bed— he had taken off his leathers and sat relaxed in his linen shirt and breeches. It maddened Sansa how he could be so at ease around her, especially after what had happened; not a single emotion reflected back at her from his moonlight eyes, while she felt like every part of her sang for him. It hurt her, maybe everyone was right— he is a cold man who plays with people. 

‘Come out of that head of yours’ he said tightly, ‘and ask what you will. I told you what happened but clearly you have questions’ 

She met his gaze directly. ‘Tywin Lannister still believes that you are on his side, and you’ll prove that fully by marrying me, correct?’ 

‘That is his conviction, yes’ 

‘Then why haven’t you married me yet?’ Lord Bolton rested his elbows on the tops of his knees and sighed. ‘Because I am not on the Lannisters’ side, I belong in the North, and so do you, Sansa. This is where my loyalty is— if I have to cut down your brother to safeguard the North I would do it again. But now, the issue at hand is different; The North is back with its own people, the Lannisters do not have troops here, nor do they intend to send ones; its too tiring for them, and so marrying you is not a dire necessity’ 

She blinked back at the surgical way he spoke of things, of her and her brother as if they were all pawns to feed a cause. It baffled her how this was the same man who held her close to his chest every night, who rocked her to the waking world when the nightmare had gripped her, whose mouth on her was hot and needy and _delicate_. Which one is the real Roose Bolton? And if they are both him, how did that make Sansa feel? 

‘Why bring me North? If I am such an unnecessary pawn at the moment, why not leave me to rot in King’s Landing?’ 

He pursed his lips at her, eyes hardening for a fraction. ‘You will not like what I have to say, nor will you believe me’ 

Sansa got up from her perch and deposited herself next to him on the bed, she held her head high and locked eyes with him. ‘Try me, Lord Bolton’ 

‘I asked for you not so that I would do the Lannister’s bidding, but because I needed you, as a Stark, by my side if I would unite the North’ she watched him search her expression for hurt, and when she did not reply he continued. ‘You might think that the Northern lords do not like you, but it is only their fear speaking. If one of them musters enough courage to say the Bolton claim to the North is weak, they will all rise— in their hearts they are Stark bannermen, that is why I needed you’ 

‘Needed?’   
Roose Bolton reached out for her cheek and cupped it, ‘to marry me or not is your decision now. All your life you’ve never been given the choice: it is yours now. I owe you my life, Sansa, whatever you wish I would make happen’ 

Tears blurred her vision. She didn’t know what to say. ‘Anything?’   
His jaw tensed but he nodded in agreement.   
‘If I asked to go to the Wall, to Jon Snow, you will let me?’ She needed to test him— to know if she meant _anything_ to him. 

The hand on her cheek is removed, and Sansa feels the loss of it within her. His face is impassive, ‘You’d leave me?’ 

_Please,_ she thought, _show me anything, a sign you want me by your side for me and not anything else._ But Lord Bolton stared back at her levelly, back straight, chin up and eyes forever a mystery to her. 

‘Do you want to marry me?’ The question surprised him— she noticed him lose his bearings for a moment but then he refigured his expression into disquiet again. ‘This is your decision, Sansa, not mine’ 

‘What happens if I say no?’  
A smile was fashioned on his lips in reply, but one that did not reach his eyes, and was more for himself than her. ‘Nothing. Things will be as they were. I will still instruct you, you will remain my ward until you see fit to marry whoever you want. We will battle Stannis and the North will be independent’ 

‘And you will marry the Frey girl?’ The question was out before she could take it back, but it wiped the smile off Lord Bolton’s face and sobered him up. She could see that it had an effect on him. 

‘House Bolton needs an heir’ he avoided her question. Could she be the one to give him heirs? She sought his grey eyes, hoping to find the same sentiment reflected there. Did he imagine her carrying his babe? Had he imagined being so intimate with her before as she constantly dreamed of him? Sansa felt like she was being torn up into two. 

‘I want to think about it, if your lordship doesn’t mind it’ She saw fractional surprise in his eyes, something it had taken her a while to decipher. ‘I want to trust you, but I can’t. Please tell me something to trust you’ 

He held both her hands in his, twisting to stare at her straight in the face. The thoughts were building up behind his eyes until the brewing storm rested and he spoke softly, ‘I knew you step up Ramsay’ 

Her hands flew from his grasp and she stumbled up from her seat. Her eyes were wide open, and her heart in her throat; he knew all along? He stared up at her in amusement, ‘I knew, Sansa. I knew you and that Ironborn moved the provisions to blame their disappearance on my bastard’ his eyes flashed dangerously towards her, ‘I knew and I let you. I knew and I accepted you in my bed, and took care of you nevertheless. Is that not an expression of trust?’ 

Sansa stared back at him in disbelief. He let his own son be destroyed; what kind of man is Roose Bolton? Sansa felt that the answer was a bottomless spiral. ‘you wanted him gone too.’   
Lord Bolton shrugged, eyes turning towards the fireplace. ‘He was out of control. Sooner or later he would’ve succeeded in gutting me like he wanted.’ 

They were silent for a moment. Until Lord Bolton got up and brought Sansa into his arms, placing his hands against her waist and resting his chin on her head, ‘Tell me something to trust you, Sansa. You killed my bastard and I let you remain by my side, that should be evidence to trust me, but how can I be guaranteed you will not betray me again?’ 

‘I-i didn’t betray you’ she shivered in his arms, but he pressed her closer to his chest, his thumbs rubbing softly against her waist; pacifying her. ‘He was going to hurt me, or worse’ 

‘I would’ve protected you’ she wished she could see his face, anything to reassure her if she would make the right decision or not. ‘Still, tell me something to trust you’ 

Sansa rubbed her face into his chest miserably and racked her brains for something. She could not tell him about Bran and Rickon, not yet. If she did, then she would be as gullible as her father. Sansa needed to _think_. 

She slowly pushed herself back without removing his hands from on her, tipping her head back she met his searching gaze. ‘I know who killed Joffrey’ 

He finally smiled at her slightly in genuine pride. It confused her, it made her feel warm that she had impressed and yet she felt naked before his predatory smile. ‘Take as much time as you’d like to consider my offer of marriage, Sansa’ 

Her heart did a terrible tumble in her chest, how could he possibly have such a powerful effect on her? ‘B-but, dont you care to know who it is?’ 

Lord Bolton leaned forward, and pressed his lips to her so gently and softly. To her surprise, Sansa fisted the chest of his shirt in her small hand; the unexpected kiss spurring her to sigh into his mouth. He pulled away much to her chagrin, and stared at her like an entertained predator. ‘Perhaps later. It is enough that you are willing’


	19. Gears at Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa uncovers some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your well-wishes and for commenting xx 
> 
> here we go, my lads!

Sansa thought a visit to her sick cousin–– the closest thing she has for family now –– would take her mind off of things. Things like the thought of Roose Bolton’s marriage proposal, and things like how much her body ached for his touch. She hadn’t seen her aunt’s son since he had arrived, and suddenly it felt strange that he had not attended any breakfasts or dinners with the men in the hall, and neither had Littlefinger suggested she join her cousin for an evening chat. She dressed in a simple grey shift and sought out her cousin’s chambers in the eastern wing. 

Two Vale knights stood guard at her cousin’s door, but when she informed them of her person they stared between each other in hesitation but made way for the ward of Lord Roose Bolton. She did not know what to expect; Littlefinger had informed her that Sweetrobin was sick, but the bundle of bones in the middle of the large bed was not what Sansa expected. Her child cousin looked like he had ash in his mouth, pale faced and red around the eyes; he was only a shadow of a boy, instead Sansa could see the sharp contours of his cheeks poking against the pale white pallor. ‘Sansa!’ His sweet-childlike voice, however was untainted. He struggled against the barrier of furs to straighten, but Sansa flew to his side and pushed him down. 

‘Please, cousin, lie down’ she ran a hand across his forehead. He was burning up a fever, ‘oh, sweetrobin, you’re quite ill, indeed’ 

The boy nodded solemnly, ‘Uncle Petyr says its grief’ 

_Aunt Lysa_. Sansa sat beside her cousin and held his feverish hand, ‘I’m sorry for your mother’s loss, dear cousin. It seems we have only each other as family now’ 

‘And Uncle Petyr!’   
She nodded in reassurance, ‘yes, ofcourse, and Uncle Petyr’ the boy smiled contentedly that she had agreed, and latched onto her with his arms wrapped around her waist. ‘Do you know what happened to Aunt Lysa, Sweetrobin?’ 

‘Mother wasn’t well in the head, or the heart. She flew through the moon door to somewhere better’ The boy shivered in her arms, and Sansa raised both eyebrows in contemplation. Whatever was Sweetrobin saying? 

‘Lysa had suffered too much in this lifetime’ 

Sansa twisted around towards the drifting brogue of Littlefinger. He leaned against the doorway, watching the cousins in their embrace with what Sansa could pinpoint as Petyr Baelish's attempt at being an endearing father. ‘My lord’ 

‘Petyr’ his incessant request for her to call him by his name, ‘Call me Petyr, Sansa. We’re family now’ 

Sweetrobin pulled away enough from Sansa to beam at his step-father, ‘Yes, Uncle Petyr, I was just telling Sansa that the three of us are family’ 

‘Right you are, Sweetrobin’ he smiled down at the ill child, he then sighed as if something just came upon him. ‘Now, my child, your sweet cousin and I have much to discuss. It would be better for you to take your medicine and sleep, perhaps you would feel better enough to join us for dinner’ 

The boy hurriedly slipped under the fears in excitement, ‘and I can sit next to Sansa? And dance with her?’ 

Sansa dimpled at her little cousin, ‘ofcourse. If you’re well enough’ 

Lord Baelish motioned for the maester to come in, and Sansa stood by his side as they watched her little cousin gulp down a strange liquid and slowly stumble into a deep slumber. Littlefinger’s arm snaked around Sansa’s, pulling her outside for a walk. ‘He is not faring as well as I had hoped.’ 

Sansa nodded gravely, ‘He has lost both his father and mother at such a young age, it mustn't be easy’ 

‘So did you, Sansa’ Littlefinger stared straight ahead of them, but she could feel the appreciate glance he would cast at her all over her skin. ‘And yet you have come out alive at each turn the Lannisters have thrown you in’ 

She didn’t want to quite talk about herself yet. Sansa needed to slowly get Littlefinger to talk, she knew he had a hand in Joffrey’s murder; she only needed to be sure. And ask him why he had done it. ‘What happened to my Aunt?’ 

‘As Sweetrobin had said, Lysa had finally snapped; years of being forced by her family and duties to perform and act in a certain way had gotten the better of my wife’ the words were sickly sweet with compassion and regret, if Sansa had not meet him in King’s Landing, had not seen him lie to Cersei and the courtiers with false, sweet meekness, Sansa would say he was telling the truth. ‘Your aunt had finally achieved happiness by marrying me, but it seems that memories of the past festered too strongly, and Lysa sadly took her own life’ 

_No._ She couldn’t believe it; but how would she broach the subject with this dangerous man beside her. She only tightened her hold around his arm and nodded dejectedly. They had walked out onto the tops of Winterfell, overlooking the courtyard. 

Sansa turned to stare into the grey-green eyes of Littlefinger, ‘Did you have anything to do with Joffrey’s death?’ 

His eyes lit up with amusement. ‘I see your brain has not been fully dulled in the presence of the Boltons’ 

She only met his gaze steadily, eyes brimming with questions for him to answer. He took a step forward and ran a finger across Sansa’s chin indulgently. ‘I had a hand in the boy-king’s death, yes’ 

The air in Sansa’s lung turned crispier and colder at the revelation. Littlefinger is dangerous, Shae had told her; had warned her several times but Sansa dismissed the handmaiden time and again like a stupid silly little girl. But looking at the man before her now, with a determined expression washing over the false amused, courtesy mask he donned— Sansa knew she had to tread quite carefully with this force of reckoning. ‘Why?’ 

‘Given the opportunity, what do we do to those who have hurt the ones we love?’ A sort of fierceness enveloped Littlefinger, spurring him to close the distance between them. 

‘No’ she shook her head in miserable disbelief at him. He could not have done this for her mother. Joffrey did not instigate the Red Wedding, that was all Tywin Lannister and Lord Bolton’s doing; and they remained alive and well. And he could not have done it for Sansa; Petyr Baelish had never lifted a finger for her during the countless beatings and humiliations she had suffered under Joffrey’s instruction. ‘You did not do it for love; not for my mother or myself. You murdered Joffrey because it fell in line with something you want’ 

‘And what do I want, Sansa?’ He was a breadth away from her, his eyes roaming over her expression; his breath pouring across her face. 

‘I don’t know’ He looked disappointed with her. Sansa was fooling herself if she thought she could play this game. She could not figure out what Lord Bolton wanted of her, even if she wanted to so badly. And she could not unmask Littlefinger as well, she was out of her depth. 

‘I want the Lannisters off the Iron Throne, and I want you in their place’ he smiled at her, ‘with Joffrey’s death, the realm is in chaos; and you and I could easily capitalise on that chaos for our own benefit. That is what I want, Sansa’ 

Sansa stared at the mockingbird pin at his throat. If he saw her eyes, he would know where her loyalties truly stood. ‘And how do you suggest we capitalise on the chaos?’ 

Taking it as a window of opportunity, Littlefinger inhaled sharply and murmured softly. ‘If the South is in ruins after the death of their heir, then the North can prosper’ 

‘Under Lord Bolton?’ 

He paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps someone with a stronger claim to the North. A Stark’ 

Sansa’s eyes widened and sought Littlefinger’s direct gaze. Did he know about Bran and Rickon? Would he bring them back to become the Lords of Winterfell? ‘You, Sansa. As queen of the North, as Queen of the Seven kingdoms’ 

That silenced her. He could clearly see she had not expected him to prop her up as his candidate, but Sansa gathered enough strength to shoulder through the shock. ‘There can be no rulers in the North, a Warden is already in place.’ 

‘The war with Stannis Baratheon is imminent. Anything can befall the Warden during an attack, but Sansa Stark behind Winterfell’s walls remains’ he smiled at her wickedly. This is the Littlefinger who whispered in the cloisters with Varys back in King’s Landing; the one Sansa had been blind to recognise. He took her silence as a means to continue, ‘Marry Ser Harrold and you would have the entire backing of the Vale forces behind you, along with the Northern Lords who would flock for your cause.’ 

‘Ser Harrold?’ She certainly did _not_ want to marry him. ‘But Sweetrobin is the heir, he can easily provide support’ 

Littlefinger shook his head in desolation, taking a few steps away from Sansa to stare out across the expanse of Snow beyond Winterfell’s walls. ‘My young boy is not fit enough to survive the coming winter, I am afraid, and I am lord protector for as long as Sweetrobin lives; I cannot muster Vale power for you if we do not have an alliance with their houses’ 

He would have her marry Ser Harrold, who would eventually become heir of the Eyrie if Sweetrobin would to mysteriously die of his strange illness. Sansa felt sick in her stomach but she maintained her poise and brushed the front of her frock in concentration. ‘What then, Petyr?’ 

‘We wait’ one side of his lips tugged into a smile, ‘make Harry infatuated with you, seek his company, and we’ll have him under our thumbs, Sansa.’ 

She nodded as if she understood, as if she agreed, and wondered, _but where do you fit within all of this, Littlefinger?_. 

*** 

She is now sure of Littlefinger’s reasoning behind his presence in the North. He aims to make her queen of the north, nay, of the entire seven kingdoms. But what kept Sansa awake during the night is wondering about what will he do with Roose? The feeling of being torn apart mounted as her fears rumbled through her small chest. She cared for Roose Bolton; he had given her a chance to make her own decision in regards to his marriage proposal. But what would he do if he realised that Stark heirs were still alive to challenge his rule? Littlefinger was dangerous and treacherous, but his plan would guarantee a safety for her brothers if she became queen. But what would happen to Roose? 

Sansa could not let him get murdered during the war against Stannis. She could not bring herself to choose a future over his life— even if he had done so, carelessly and ruthlessly, when it came to her family. Over the past few months, Sansa had realised how intertwined they were together. Roose Bolton had hounded her at every corner to shed the ivory mask of indifference and propriety she had donned ever since she had arrived at King’s Landing, and slowly took up her education and rebuilding her Northern character as his sole task. But overtime Sansa had to admit that something within her began to develop for Roose Bolton; a burgeoning, slow affection— for the time he set aside for her instruction, for the way his fingers glided over her skin indulgently, for the way he had kissed her. Sansa had unexplainable feelings for Lord Bolton; but their fates were tied together, her heart had spoken. And yet did he feel the same way? Was there any affection in the Bolton man? The father who had let his one remaining son be destroyed, the bannerman who had gutted his liege lord, the man who ruthlessly played with everyone as pawns to further his own ambitions? 

She still wanted him, and that terrified her. The feel of his hand cupping breasts, and his fingers between her folds in slow, torturous strokes struck a cord inside of her— she slipped out of her bed and sought Lord Bolton’s room. 

His door was unlocked as always. The pyre in the fireplace burning low, and casting shadows across the room. But Sansa could clearly see the bare-chested frame of Roose Bolton atop the bed, the hard mould of his body calling to something feral inside her that reached for the furs and climbed in next to him. As if on impulse, Lord Bolton felt Sansa’s warm body beside him and brought her closer to him, a hand lingering on her hip. Sansa let escape a breathy keening at the feel of him against her, gods, she had missed him. Gods, she wanted him to touch her again. Much to her dismay, Lord Bolton slowly woke from his stupor and stared blankly at Sansa. ‘Go to your bed, Sansa’ 

She frowned up at him, huddling more into his side and tried to bury her face into his chest. But he stopped her by slowly pushing her away, ‘unless you’ve made a decision, it's no longer proper for you to sleep in my bed. I should’ve made it clearer before’ 

‘I haven't made a decision’ she muttered petulantly. _Please want me. Please reach for me and kiss me._ ‘but I can’t sleep’ 

He glowered at her and rumbled sleepily, ‘you haven't had nightmares for quite some time, my lady. I would know’ 

Blushing wildly, her body remembered instantly the wanton dreams Sansa had been having of Roose Bolton. The feel of his lips all over her, the urgency of the want in his eyes; all things Sansa wished he would show her right now. Anything to tell her that her decision was an easy one to make. But Lord Bolton leaned up on one elbow, and looked down at Sansa’s breathy, red faced expression. She watched him glance over the body so eager for him. ‘Why are you here, Sansa?’ He growled between clenched teeth. 

‘I can’t sleep’ she murmured embarrassedly again. Her whole body felt on alert, so tense and wound up in his bed, seeking something he had sated a few nights before. But now he had that simmering impatience in his eyes that, although should frighten her, drenched Sansa’s small clothes with want. 

His hand aggressively pulled the furs away from her body, and slowly descended to her legs, pushing her nightgown to bunch up around her knees. Sansa held her breath as she felt Lord Bolton’s fingers trace her knees, then almost torturously her inner thighs, before forcefully slipping through her small clothes and into the heat between her legs. Sansa stared up into his eyes with her heart in her throat, she was inquisitive and embarrassed at how brazenly his hand had found her core. He was the first to break eye contact when his fingers rubbed through her wetness— he let out a groan that reverberated through his exposed chest to Sansa’s shivering form. 

‘Sansa’ he muttered gruffly. She watched him close his eyes as he extracted his fingers from her wetness, and to her horror, brought them to his lips. Her heart nearly stopped at the scene unfolding before her, Lord Bolton licked her juices off his fingers with one languorous popping sound as he removed his digits from his mouth. When he opened up his eyes again, Sansa saw the unabashed hunger; feral and angry. ‘I can’t help you, and you need a clear mind to make a decision. As much I would like to take you here and now until   
you truly weep, I won’t, Sansa. Go to your bed, and make a decision’ 

She wanted to bare her teeth at him, to throw herself at his chest and beg him to take her, to slap him in the face again. Her body slowly ebbed and flowed from scalding heat to an encompassing chill, she glanced up at him one more time in helplessness, but the determined expression on his face told her to get up. Sansa angrily slammed the door behind her, not caring if all of Winterfell woke up to find her stalking out of Lord Bolton’s chambers. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. She repeated to herself as she huddled into her own bed, simmering with anger. But she fell asleep, with the slickness between her thighs, and the image of Lord Bolton’s lips glistening with her juices. 

Sansa cared.


	20. War Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose plans a war, and a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. enjoy ;) 
> 
> also we're going to pretend that GOT did not just end. thats not a thing. i'm in denial.

Roose Bolton was not a man who simply accepted refusal to any of his desires. He had pragmatically turned against his king— slipping in the killing blow between Robb Stark’s ribs, just so he would safeguard his ambitions. He knew what the Northerners said about his House; a barbarian violent family that bred on the fear and terror of others. Roose never cared, he looked out for his own, and maintained his rule over the ancestry Dreadfort, and now he had barrelled through anyone who had dared say no to his rule as Warden. No was not a word Roose was accustomed to hearing. However, what he was _truly_ not expecting was to have a beautiful young girl in his bed, wet and needy for him, and refuse her. Roose did not expect her to be so taken with him, nor did he think she would embrace her desires and actively seek him to satisfy her. The memory of her wet cunt hardened Roose instantly as he marched to his War council the next morning. He had said no to Sansa Stark, something he did not think himself capable of. He took what he wanted and said bugger all to whoever denied him of it— and yet he had ordered Sansa out of his bed even if he had wanted her so badly his cock had been straining against the bed. Was it out of chivalry? To not cloud her already torn mind, and allow her the respite to consider his proposal as if he was courting her like those knights in her stories? Or was he only baiting her? Roose felt that the latter felt more like himself. Why would the Wardern of the North care whether Sansa had freewill or not, he wanted Sansa as an _asset_ , maybe as a willing young wife to warm his bed, but he could not have actually cared about her freedom in all this. 

_Yet I have coveted her comfort and safety at every turn_ , he realised. Perhaps he was only performing his duty as her guardian; making sure that she is cured of her Lannister horrors, and rebuild her into a proper Bolton lady. All for his benefit, surely. Once he entered the council room, he brushed aside all thoughts of Sansa. If he did not triumph against that buggering Baratheon, there would be no opportunities to sample what the little Wolf had wanted him to take the night before. 

Generals of both the Bolton horde and the Knights of the Vale surrounded Eddard Stark’s map of the north, stretched atop the table. Roose noted that Lord Royce was present, along with Littlefinger who stood faraway from the men, leaning beside the window with a small smile plastered on his face. 

‘My lords and Sers’ Roose greeted them with a sharp nod, and took his place at the head of the table. ‘Thank you for your attendance so early in the morning. We’ve had word that Stannis Baratheon had forsaken his position at Castle Black and aims to march towards Winterfell’ 

Mumbling and whispering erupted amongst the attending men. The noise slowly dwindled with a sharp sweep of Roose’s gaze across the room. ‘Now’ his voice resounded over the room, sharp and authoritative in its matter of fact manner, ‘we have but two ways of proceeding. We either muster up all our forces and meet Stannis Baratheon in battle with winter so close by, or we save our strength and supplies, and let the hunger and cold take out the advancing army. I would propose the later option’ 

When Roose proposed, he truly meant _ordered_. However, he still stared every man present in the face; willing them to speak against him if they dared. His men stood impassively acquiescent to his orders, Roose knew they would fall on their swords this instant if he ordered them to; truly his creatures. The knights of the vale, on the other hand, shrugged and mumbled incoherently with indecision. Roose glanced towards Littlefinger, but the serpent was staring out of the window contentedly as if he had not heard a single word uttered in the room. 

It was Lord Royce who dared to speak. ‘My lord Roose, the Knights of the Vale did not travel all this way to be cooped up inside walls’ he hesitated, licking his lips in contemplation before continuing, ‘like helpless cowards’ 

The shuffling stilled as every man in the room turned to gauge Roose’s reaction. The lord under scrutiny smiled at Royce, ‘I dont remember sending a raven asking for any knights, but since you are here, my lord, you can follow what I propose, or you may march back to the Vale with arrows raining down on you like a bunch of turncloaks’ his smiled widened. ‘Your decision’ 

The man’s face reddened considerably and eyes bulged in their sockets. Roose could clearly see that Lord Royce had not agreed in the first place to come to the North, for the man in question turned to Baelish with a murderous glare. Littlefinger pushed himself off the wall and circled around the table until he stood on the other end facing Roose. He shook his head at Lord Royce, ‘The Vale cannot forsake the north, not when the Pretender king can easily defeat us both if we are divided’ he murmured sagely, staring at Royce in admonishment. ‘We are in Lord Bolton’s lands, if it is strategy being chosen over thoughtless attack, then I believe we must agree with him, if we hope to survive’ 

‘As head of the house, I must disagree—‘  
‘—as Lord Protector of the Vale, I do ask you to reconsider your next words’ Littlefinger smirked, but everyone in the room saw the mounting threat in his eyes. 

Roose was growing weary of this useless display of whose cock was bigger, and so he cleared his throat. Everyone quickly regained their poise and turned towards their liege lord. ‘Its been decided. We will hold our position within Winterfell, once Stannis’ forces have suffered enough from the biting cold of the North and starvation, we strike at the opportune moment’ Roose straightened to his full height, hands locked behind his back, and stared straight at Royce, ‘those who think otherwise are welcome to return home. At their own peril’ 

He smiled again until Royce uncomfortably loosened the doublet around his thick throat and looked away in surrender. 

*** 

On his way to the clearing for his daily training with his soldiers, Roose caught sight of a red-haired braid by the shooting grounds. He stopped in his tracks, watching Sansa lean against her usual spot beside the Ironboy as he practiced his archery. Roose was accustomed to seeing her spend the first half of her morning after breakfast with Greyjoy. It irritated him. He couldn’t simply order her to stay away from the boy because he felt irritated, although she had heeded his order in regards to Harrold fucking Hardyng. But with Theon, Roose knew that the boy was her only link to her true family, and he could not bring himself to sever that tie. He had done enough to ensure that no Stark remained for his ward. He needed to join his soldiers, but he caught the small smile beginning to form on Sansa’s lips and felt something shift in him, stopping him to watch. He hadn’t seen her smile like that before. As if feeling his burning gaze on her, Sansa distractedly pulled her concentration away from the sheepish Greyjoy to meet Roose’s flagrant inspection of her. It annoyed him that the smile on her face faltered considerably, replaced instead by the shy, blushing demeanour she always seemed to reserve only for him. Roose nodded sharply at her, and watched her curtsy in response. 

He felt irrationally vexed as he walked away from her. Her honest smile burning an imprint in his mind, reminding him that _this_ was how Sansa Stark truly looked when she was happy. As he donned his armour for practice, he ordered one of his men to send for Theon Greyjoy for a late audience in his solar. 

*** 

His blood ran hot after training with his men, Roose knew he was covered with sweat and soot but he didn’t care as he walked into his solar and found Theon Greyjoy standing as still as a statue. ‘Ah, Greyjoy ’ 

The boy flinched momentarily as Roose shut the door behind him. He circled around the boy, shedding off his leathers and tossing himself onto his chair by the desk. ‘You asked for me, my lord’ Theon’s voice faltered, but Roose could see that the broken, terrified creature Ramsay had turned this boy into was slowly disappearing. 

The lifeless gaze Roose was accustomed to seeing totter behind his bastard every day was filled with warmth, Roose wondered if that was Sansa’s doing or courtesy of a few weeks of good meal and bed. 

‘Aye’ Roose glanced up at him. ‘I’ve given you enough respite after my bastard’s death. Now it is time to prove yourself’ 

‘P-prove my s-self, my lord?’ He was back to stuttering, it only made Roose hardened in his quest. 

‘I know it was you and lady Sansa who had hidden the provisions to frame my bastard’ Roose stonily said, ‘Do you wish me to drag Lady Stark through the clearing and cut her dainty throat for treason?’ 

The boy’s eyes grew animated with horror and took a frantic step forward, arm extended, ‘No! Please, Sansa.. Leave Sansa be, my lord’ 

Roose pushed himself out of his chair and stalked towards Theon until he was crowding his space, he could smell the fear radiating off the boy. Ramsay had done quite the damage. ‘Then prove your loyalty’ 

‘How?’ He said brokenly. Roose thought that if the Ironborn cried he would send him away. 

‘Ramsay liked to blabber, he certainly did not inherit that from me. Perhaps from his mother.’ Roose tapped a finger against Theon’s chin to gain his attention, ‘you followed him like a dog, tell me. What was he planning to do?’ 

‘Planning?’ 

Roose grabbed his chin in a tight vice and brought his eyes in level with his own. ‘Yes, Theon’ he drawled softly, ‘What were his plans for the foreseeable future?’ 

The Ironborn visibly shook in Roose’s grasp, stuttering and inhaling his breath harshly until Roose leaned by his ear and murmured. ‘Speak, or else Sansa will suffer the consequences. I am not my bastard, I would not subject you to his cruelties again. But remember, Ramsay had to learn from somewhere’ 

Theon’s knees gave up from under him, and Roose had to hold him upright. ‘Speak, boy’ 

‘The S-stark boys’ he whispered in terror, ‘I didn't kill them. Lord Ramsay was looking for them to kill them himself, so as to be the only heir’ 

Roose stilled under the new revelation. His mind quickly shifted sharply to Sansa. ‘Bran and Rickon Stark are live?’ 

‘Yes’ Theon said miserably, choking on his own sobs. ‘They escaped when I took Winterfell. I dont know where they are’ 

He believed the broken creature. Roose helped Theon to a chair and deposited the sack of bones to rest until he came into terms with the idea of two Stark heirs being alive and well. ‘You are sure of this?’ 

‘I am sure I did not kill them, my lord’ Theon muttered shakily, ‘if something befell them later, I am unaware of it’ 

‘Does Sansa know?’ That is what Roose truly wanted to hear. 

Theon blinked away the tears as he stared up to Lord Roose’s terrifying stance, then hung his head on his chest. ‘Yes.’ 

Roose didnt know he was holding his breath. Atleast that saved him the excruciating bother of weighing whether to tell her or not, and destroying whatever semblance of trust he had developed with her. However, he realised Sansa had not told _him_ about it. She still feared him, distrusted him, even if she had come to his bed utterly willing. 

‘Don’t tell her that we have spoken about her brothers’ Roose did not have to threaten or intimidate anymore, the boy was his. He dismissed him and sat by his desk, contemplating how to proceed next. 

*** 

He avoided dinner that evening. He had paid a visit instead to the Freys in their private quarters, informing them that he respectfully and humbly declines their offer of marriage. Little Walda had looked almost relieved, that made Roose smile wickedly at her until she huddled behind one of her brothers. The Frey men, on the other hand, looked irritated and downcast. Roose suggested that they were more than welcome to stay for dinner, but they could discern from his words that he wanted them packed and going. Afterwards, he had informed his steward to bring his dinner to his solar; he would not dine in the hall, not with Sansa so close by and undecided yet. 

He supped without interest, his mind lingering elsewhere. As long as there were Starks, the Bolton claim to the North would be weak. But they were only children, one part of his mind reasoned with him. The other pragmatic and ruthless part knew how dangerous it would be if a whiff of rumours circulated around that Stark boys were still alive. Then there was Sansa, beautiful and stubborn, if she knew her brothers were alive then she would do everything in her power to make sure they are safe. Would that include betraying him? He thought there must be a way to have both Sansa and control over the North. 

A soft knock on his door pulled him out of the depths of his thoughts. He knew the knock quite well, he called for Sansa to come in, watching the little Wolf slip quietly into the room. She was dressed in a peach-coloured dress, the colour blending nicely with her pale complexion. Roose noticed that she had unbraided her hair, letting her curls fall down her back unrestrained. After wandering appreciatively over her frame, his eyes settled on the determined yet timid expression on her face. They both remained silent, eyes locked onto each other, until Sansa stood by his chair staring down at him through heavy lids. Roose was unsure of her actions, but she finally spoke. ‘You missed dinner’ 

He raised one eyebrow at her, ‘yes, I dined while I worked’ 

The next move was slowly being formulated in her head, or Roose could see that she had made up her mind over what she wanted to do; she only needed the strength to execute it. Roose watched the warring thoughts in her eyes until she finally decided and climbed onto his lap. He was taken off guard, but he kept an impassive face as he felt her soft body press against his. 

Sansa placed her small palm against his chest, over his heart, and whispered, ‘You’ve sent the Freys away, my lord’ 

Aha. He leaned back into his chair, smirking at Sansa. ‘It seems so’ 

‘Why?’ The seriousness on her face told Roose that so many things depended on his answer. Sansa may be holding back her decision to marry him until he answered in a way to her liking. 

‘My lady had said i could do better’ When she met his gaze head-on without acknowledging his quip, his palm spread over the curve of her waist, his thumb drawing circles through the thick material of her dress. He wanted to feel her under his touch. ‘I wanted to eliminate any distractions for you. Anything that would cause you to think I am not invested in my proposal to you’ 

She let out a breathy sigh, coupled with her plush weight against his groin, Roose was finding it slightly difficult to maintain his usual cool. 

‘Are you invested in this, my lord? Do you want me to be your wife?’ He frowned at her. Did she want him to serenade her like those fools in her songs? He was no Dragonknight, he would not send her secret poems and court her like a princess. Yet, Sansa looked so hopeful, so helplessly expectant with her eyes shuttered and mouth slightly open letting in her harsh breathing. ‘What do you want me to say, Sansa? I’ve propositioned you with a marriage proposal. I’ve given you the choice to refuse me. What more do you want?’ 

Roose watched her watch him. Her eyes flitted from his eyes to his mouth, then back to his grey gaze in concentration. As soon as her jaw set and her helpless expression evaporated, Roose knew she had made her decision. 'Do you trust me, Sansa?'

She lowered her gaze to somewhere around his throat, thinning her lips into a severe line. That was all the answer he needed; Sansa could not bring herself to trust him. 

‘Yes’ She finally uttered.  
Roose hated how surprised he had sounded. 'Yes?’   
‘Yes, I’ll marry you, my lord’ her voice was clear, meeting his gaze again; showing him that she had not answered his initial question, but she had accepted his proposal. A proper lady accepting an offer of marriage— Sansa was both timid like a maiden and determined like a lady of a stronghold. Roose, like a buggering fool, felt himself wishing she would smile. 

Roose was the first to close the distance between them, he hungrily sought her lips, one hand cradling the back of her neck to provide him with better access. To his amazement, Sansa whimpered into his mouth when his kiss turned sloppier, his tongue exploring hers as her arms went around his neck, pressing her chest flush against him. The breathy, soft noises coming out of Sansa reverberated through Roose, making him want her even more, his hands running over her body like a starved man. He had wanted her in his arms like this ever since he had first tasted her; he was far too drunk to remember it clearly but he recognised the eagerness of her kiss. Roose quite enjoyed the noises she made. 

Their kiss was a mess of teeth, tongue and wetness. Roose slowly pulled away with a resounding pop, watching Sansa’s lust-hazed eyes register that she needed to breathe. He stared at her red, shiny mouth, inflamed and wet from their frenzied kiss. She blinked back several times at him, as if shocked at her behavior; Roose felt his cock twitch at thought of seeing her truly undone and unfettered. 

Running his hand through her hair, Roose watched her shut her eyes and lean into his touch, causing something to ease within his chest. He convinced himself that it was relief that she had chosen him, otherwise he would have had to send a very long and apologetic letter to Walder Frey. But as Sansa leaned across his chest, huddling into her arms she murmured, ‘you were a good guardian, perhaps you’ll be a better husband’ 

He couldn’t help the smirk on his face. ‘Is that a joke, Sansa?’ 

He felt her body’s tremor, chuckling silently. He was overtaken with the urge to pull her up so he could see the mirth in her eyes, but he let her be. ‘Will your lordship order me back to my bed again?’

He enjoyed Sansa when she let her guard down. Perhaps this won’t be such a tiresome marriage after all. He ran his hand down the expanse of her body, reminding himself to show restrain until their wedding night. He was no knight of her songs, but Roose liked traditions; enjoyed the simplicity and authenticity of the act. He imagined Sansa wrapped in nothing but his house’s coat, stretched out upon their wedding bed for him. ‘Maybe for a little while more, lady Sansa’ 

She sighed into his chest but huddled further into his arms.


	21. Postponed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides to play the game. Roose is a damsel in distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa to the rescue! 
> 
> Thank you all for commenting and reading xx
> 
> Finals are over so expect daily updates again!

Sansa woke with a warmth spreading like webbing across her chest. Lord Bolton was right, it had been a while since she had a night terror; now she slept like a warm and comforted babe–– all thanks to him. 

_Roose_. She rubbed her face into the furs like a giddy child, remembering how he had kissed her after she had accepted his marriage proposal. _I am to be married_ , she realized, _I am to be the Lady of Winterfell and the Dreadfort._

To expect that he wanted her hand in marriage because he cared for her would be a silly thought; Sansa still harbored love for songs and stories – nothing could take that away from her – but she had grown quite enough, first, over the years she had spent in misery under the Lannisters’ thumb, and then under Lord Bolton’s tutelage the past few months. But would it be so horrible to hope? against all odds? even if she knew that this marriage was of convenience and an asset to the both of them? She wanted to be a good wife to him, a strong and capable lady of the North; one who continued to assist him in the ledgers and accounts of the Warden. When she had murmured in his arms that she expected him to be a good husband, she had meant it; but had he internally scoffed at her delirious, childish yearnings? Roose Bolton was an amused player of the game of thrones, he moved the pieces, took opportunities, and reaped the benefits– even if it meant he would step over a few scattered bodies on the way. Would her parents have agreed to marrying her to such a man? 

_They agreed to marry you to that beast of a boy_ , Joffrey’s false smiles and kisses filled her vision, causing bile to churn in her stomach. But they didn’t know, if they knew they wouldn’t have married her to him. She tried to convince herself, but Sansa now knew the way marriages shifted as easily as the wind changed direction. Her own parent’s marriage was an arranged one; Catelyn Tully would have married Brandon Stark if not for his horrifying death, and her father had fulfilled his family’s word and married Catelyn to honor her. Even Joffrey had tossed her aside as soon as a Tyrell match seemed to be more fruitful for the crown. Lysa Tully had been forced by her father to marry the old and aging Jon Arryn, leaving her shrill and hopeless till her death. Sansa knew the truth, as the most powerful house in the North, and with her father as the Warden, they would have arranged an advantageous marriage for her, and like all the women before her she would step into her role with poised dignity and accept her fate. _I chose Roose Bolton_ , she reminded herself, _I could’ve said no and he would’ve let me._ Sansa would hold her fate in her own hands, and prove to both–– herself and those who had tortured her, that Sansa Stark was not broken and she had not hardened on the inside. She would survive. 

Suddenly her heart stopped in her chest, reminding her of Petyr Baelish and his feverish dream of putting her on the iron throne, and his subtle threat of murdering Roose Bolton on the battlefield. If Lord Bolton announced their betrothal without allowing Sansa enough time to muster a plan to deal with Littlefinger, then he would blindly consign himself to death. Jumping out of bed, Sansa quickly slipped into her slippers and thundered out of the door towards Lord Bolton’s room. His room was empty, Sansa thought to look for him in his solar. Thankfully she had not stumbled upon any Bolton soldiers or Vale knights, when she finally stood at the solar’s threshold her face blanched as she took in the constituents of the room. 

Roose stood at the head of the table, leaning over the maps spread out with a concentrated expression as he lectured Littlefinger, Lord Royce, and Ser Harold among other Bolton generals. She was still hidden from the other men, but Lord Bolton caught sight of her. The hardened grey eyes imperceptibly softened once he held her with his gaze, straightening to face her with an amused air. ‘Ah, Sansa’ he nodded for her to enter, even if he had raised one eyebrow at her choice of nightgown– Sansa blushed at her stupidity, hoping none of the present men could see through the shift. ‘There’s no better time than now to announce––‘ she shook her head slowly with widened eyes for him to not utter another word. She noticed his deepening scowl but he didn’t skip a beat, turning back to the curious men with the hardened, concentrated expression of before, ‘to inform you that Tywin Lannister has been murdered’ 

That threw the room into heavy silence. Lord Royce’s face was the only one in the room that had not masked its surprised horror. Lord Baelish had been staring at Sansa, but his eyes shadowed imperceptibly as they settled on the source of news. _Did he already know? was that him as well?_ , Sansa wondered. Ser Harrold looked uninterested in the enormity of the revelation, his eyes flitted between the men in the room; gauging the seriousness of the situation from the expression on their faces. The Old Lion is dead, the Lannister’s lord is no longer there in King’s landing; ruling in Joffrey’s stead and holding Cersei’s violent tendencies in check. Every calculated move since the initial unfoldment of this war had been carefully crafted by Lord Tywin–– murdering hundreds, trampling over years of tradition, values; merciless and precise orders. Now that he had perished, what of the war? what of the crown? what of the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms? There is no king and no Hand of the king; only Cersei and her litter of children parading as the royal family, without her father to safeguard their interests and powers. Sansa wondered if Cersei felt the same way she had felt when her own lord father had been killed; the man who protected and took care of her, gone from this world and left her alone to fend for herself. 

She was the first to recover and stared up at Lord Bolton. ‘Murdered? how?’ 

‘It seems like the Imp has fully embraced the title of kinslayer’ Lord Bolton drawled, eyes disinterestedly shifting away from Sansa’s wide-eyed blue gaze, ‘he has done the impressive trick of disappearing all together from King’s Landing; Cersei Lannister has put out a reward for whoever brings her the Imp’s head. Quite a family’ Sansa watched him smirk. Gods, it both terrified and excited her when his mouth did that loop-sided, threatening smile.

Littlefinger raised both eyebrows. Sansa realized he didn’t know, the idea humanizes Littlefinger for her; he is only a man, he cannot know and plan everything. ’Has anyone reaped the Queen’s prize yet?’ 

‘Dowager Queen’ Roose Bolton reminded him. He then looked at the men dismissively, ‘No one has spotted the Imp, perhaps he would do us the kind courtesy of traveling up North and finishing up Stannis Baratheon. If not, then our plan proceeds as we had agreed, we wait for the Pretender to march for us. When our Northern ally forces regroup in Winterfell, we will be ready for him’ He hung his head, eyeing the map spread out before him, Sansa watched how he stared up at the men, without moving an inch; the grey ice piercing every man. 

One after the other, they filed out of the room. Littlefinger nodded his head to Sansa, eyes bright with animation; already scheming in the wake of this new piece of information. Lord Royce looked absolutely uncomfortable that Sansa wanted to pat his shoulder and assure him he was not the only confused one. 

On the other hand, Ser Harrold smirked at Sansa knowingly, eyes gliding over her thin shift suggestively. His brazen gaze made her blood boil in irritation, she turned around to maintain eye-contact with him; her glare burning back at him. He stopped once he had crossed into the hallway and chuckled, ‘Lady Sansa, would you care to––‘ but he was cut off with the door being slammed in his face. She let herself be twirled around until she rested against the door, with Lord Bolton standing before her; one hand leaning on the door beside her head, as he leant forward until she felt his breath on her skin. 

In trepidation, Sansa brought her gaze up to his. He was not angry, or irritated; the smirk he had on his face was not hostile or cruel any longer, but amused. ‘Good morning, Sansa’ 

‘Good morning, my lord’ she blushed instantly as soon as his voice rumbled in the back of his throat. His moonlight misty eyes travelled across the lines of her face, taking in her flush and the way she tried to press herself farther into the wooden door as if to put some distance between them. She held her breath, watching him lean forward to kiss her; but the thought of the others being just beyond the door had embarrassed her so much that she quickly turned her mouth away from him, his kiss landing instead on her cheeks. 

The amused, predatory smirk vanished instantly from his face as he straightened, arms crossing across his chest in a reserved stance. Feeling flustered at her stupid reaction, Sansa wanted to apologize instantaneously, but felt like it was too late, Lord Bolton had set up his impenetrable walls. ‘Had a change of heart, my lady?’

‘No!’ that was too sudden and breathless, he frowned at her. ‘I haven’t changed my mind, lord Bolton––‘   
‘––then you walked into the room with nothing but your nightgown on to see me, not to interrupt our betrothal announcement?’   
She bit her lip and stared up guiltily at him. His nose flared in response. ’To postpone it, not cancel it altogether’ How could she explain her intentions without putting him at risk of coming against Littlefinger? 

‘You would like to postpone the announcement?’ he glanced heavens-ward and moved away from her until he leaned back against the table, arms still crossed tightly over his chest. 

She rubbed her hands together against the rising chill in the room; Sansa didn’t know if she was shivering from winter’s slow creep over the castle or in fear. ’If your lordship doesn’t mind’ 

Lord Bolton trained his hooded gaze on his boots, after a few silent heartbeats as Sansa shook in her nightshift, he sharply turned his chin up at her. ‘If I ask, will you tell me your reasons?’ 

The helpless look she gave him was all the answer he needed. He pushed himself off his perch, clutched his furs and closed the distance between him and Sansa. She held her breath as he rested the cloak around her shoulders, although he did not graze against her and his touch was soft, Sansa could feel the tension in his hard body. Since he was already in a dark mood, she decided she would get it all out of the way for both their sake’s. 

‘Maybe, my lord, we could refrain from contact infront of the others?’ she whispered almost inaudibly, but he had caught her words, eyes livid now. 

‘Contact? you mean to say I can’t kiss my wife-to-be? I can’t _fucking_ touch you?’ He spat out, grounding his teeth in mounting rage. 

Her eyes widened up in surprise. ’You misunderstand, my lord, I––‘  
‘Do not presume to lecture me, _girl_.’ 

‘Dont yell at me’ she said clearly, his anger brushing against the mask she was so hoping to forsake in his company; but she couldn’t, not when he was like this. She glanced at his chest, avoiding the glowering way he looked down at her. She waited for him to yell, push her, or slap her; but Lord Bolton let go of her and quietly walked out of the room, leaving a breathless Sansa shivering in his furs. 

*** 

She hurried back to her room, lay Lord Bolton's cloak on her dressing table, and changed into a fresh frock for the day. Before heading to her daily round around the land, Sansa decided to pass by Theon’s chambers. He was no where in sight; she looked in the kennels where he sometimes sat forlornly in remembrance, but he wasn’t there either, neither was he in the godswood. Instead, she found Littlefinger staring up at the weirwood tree. He turned slightly to eye her, ‘I have never felt much affinity to the Seven Gods, but the Weirwood tree had always seemed imposing and all-knowing to me’ 

She stood beside him, eyeing the tree. She couldn’t remember the last time she had prayed for anything; Sansa had thought that all the gods had abandoned her, there was no point to call for them. ‘Do you believe in anything, Lord Baelish?’ 

He smiled at her like she had asked an excellent question, ‘I believe in material things; what men want, how to use that to my benefit’ 

She inhaled inwardly and braced herself for what she was attempting to do. ‘What if I told you I propose another plan, but one that would still be to _both_ our benefit?’ 

His fingers swept over the braid resting atop her shoulder, eyes glazed as if lost in thought, but the surety of his answer informed her that she had caught his attention. ‘The Vale Knights would follow me as queen if they’re fearful enough; we would not need to include Her Harrold, as he is too much of a nuisance to be rid of’ 

‘And how would you propose we strike fear in their hearts?’   
‘If I marry Lord Bolton’ she watched his gaze harden as they flitted up to her face. Sansa breathed out quickly, ’The North held by myself and Lord Bolton would be impenetrable by any other claims; the houses would remain loyal because of my Stark blood, and because of Lord Bolton’s forces. In the south, there is chaos and weakness with lord Tywin’s death’ She met his gaze onwards, ‘The Vale would be surrounded by two larger forces, and who would they pick to join? A weakling king like Tommen without Lord Tywin, or the large and independent Kingdom of the North?’ 

Lord Baelish vanished instantly, and was replaced by the sharp eyed Littlefinger. ‘You’ve thought over this’ 

‘Lord Tywin’s death made me think, yes, my lord’ 

She looked at him questioningly as he mulled over her words. His hand slipped up to cup her cheeks, ‘and do you think you can make Bolton marry you, sweetling?’

‘I’ll do what you told me to do, my lord’ she murmured solemnly, ‘instead of Ser Harry, I will try to win over Lord Bolton’


	22. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa plays a dangerous game.

The week that followed her conversation with Lord Bolton was a strange one. There were no attempts on his part to rebuke or dismiss her from his presence, instead Sansa found him _different_ towards her. A strange, gentle difference, one that made her breath hitch more than once. 

At the beginning of the week, Sansa sat beside him in his solar, yawning tiredly after a long and arduous analysis of a crop report. Winter was harsh on the farmers, and it was getting harder and harder to provide rations for everyone, but she and Lord Bolton shouldered through the task. Another assault of yawning brought her to his attention, he simply got up and gathered away the papers and ledgers and chucked away onto his desk. ‘Quite enough for one day, hmm?’ 

Sansa nodded smilingly through the haze of tiredness. ‘As you wish, my lord’ 

He shuffled around in his desk while she watched the hard muscles of his back move against the thin material of his linen shirt. She missed the feel of him, she realised, lowering her gaze to her hands sheepishly. 

When he turned around, there was a large thick book in his hands, which he deftly deposited infront of her. ‘Consider it a betrothal gift’ he drawled, moving to take his seat by her side. 

_A Book of Songs_ , her eyes read, following the etched words onto the leatherback of the book. She carefully brought one hand to open it onto the first page, feeling the excitement bubble inside her as she was met with illustrations of knights and ladies surrounded by a deep, green forest as they frolicked, with a looming dragon at the top of the page. ‘To replace the ones your siblings took from you’ 

Looking up, Sansa found her husband-to-be steadily watching her face. She wondered if he could see the overflow of emotions she was unable to mask from him. If he had gotten her anything else for a wedding gift, Sansa would not have reacted in the same way; heartbeat increasing until she could hear it in her ears, her breath growing shallower, and her eyes slightly tearing up. ‘Thank you, my lord’ 

One side of his mouth slipped up in warm acknowledgment. ‘I’m glad you like it’ 

‘I love it’ she breathed, turning back to her new prized possession to run her fingers reverently over the starched paper. Suddenly her face whipped up in alarming shame, ‘my lord, I-i haven’t got a gift for you’ 

Lord Bolton shook his dead dismissively and got out of his seat. ‘There’s no need, lady Sansa. I believe its my duty as husband to treat you with gifts’ 

Sansa blushed profusely. Even after she had postponed the marriage announcement and angered him beyond belief, Lord Bolton still spoke of them as a surety. He walked to the door and held it open for her, ‘take your gift and off to bed with you’ 

Walking past him and out the door, Sansa almost felt his immense disappointment radiate, that she had not bid him goodnight with a kiss. She shut her eyes in exasperation, why was she so shy of him all of a sudden? 

*** 

At dinner a night or two later Sansa had another surprise _gift_. Dinner was like any other day, Bolton and Vale generals and knights supping boisterously, Littlefinger trying to rile up Lord Bolton only to be unmatched when a sarcastic remarked was thrown back at him from the Warden himself. 

‘Have you had many wives, Lord Bolton?’ Littlefinger spoke with an amused lilt, ‘I seem to recall there were two’ 

Sansa felt an irrational irate feeling gnawing at her insides, she couldn’t help but stare up at Lord Bolton’s expression. 

He leaned back in his chair and glanced disinterestedly at Lord Baelish beside him, ‘aye, I’ve had my share of wives.’ 

‘I’ve also heard that your tastes extended to one Barbary Ryswell, sister of your second wife, Bethany’ 

Sansa felt Lord Bolton’s relaxed arm that had been brushing against her elbow all night, to suddenly stiffen. His face however, was utterly impassive. ‘You enjoy old women’s gossip, Baelish?’ _Is this you denying or acknowledging the remark, my lord?_ , Sansa wanted to press him, but she let the conversation unfold before her instead as she cut into her plate. 

‘Repeating mere gossip is not of interest to me, my lord’ Littlefinger chuckled, ‘I was only amused to find that we share similar tastes; we’ve both had sisters in our beds’ 

Sansa slowly allowed her fork to descend from her mouth in horrifying disgust. She didn’t look at Baelish; she _could not_ look at him, not with what he was insinuating. Catelyn Stark would not have sullied her honor, not when she was betrothed to another man. _She is not sullied like you_ , Sansa miserably pushed back at the voice in her hand. 

As if rising to quench her ire at Baelish’s words on her behalf, Lord Bolton relaxed back into his chair and smiled wickedly at Littlefinger. ‘As a young man, I remember hearing the news spread that the Stark heir, Brandon, was forced into a duel by a little young boy from the Fingers who wanted to fight for Catelyn Tully’s hand’ Roose Bolton murmured, ‘I remember hearing that Brandon Stark had cut the little boy in half and left him to bleed in the Trident, until Lady Tully had begged for his pitiful life, saying he is only a boy. Do you still have the scar, Lord Baelish?’ 

Sansa had never seen Littlefinger without a witty repartee, he sat there, eyes blazing and mouth set in angry humiliation. She wanted to stop Lord Bolton, he had done enough damage; this was too much. But he continued, ‘If I fucked both Ryswell sisters, I would not go round mocking the two ladies, nor would I brag about my buggering exploits infront of their daughter. You’ve tried to prove yourself a man and got slashed into two by the Trident, and now you try again but this time your opponent is a young girl. Are you man enough now, Baelish?’

Littlefinger’s face paled, all show of anger had dissipated and now he looked like he had seen a ghost. His eyes strayed to Sansa’s wide-eyed expression, and then he got up and left the hall. ‘About _fucking_ time’ Lord Bolton declared, easing into his seated position again. 

She could not even explain what had happened, nor how things had escalated so quickly. What she knew is that Lord Bolton had stood up for her, albeit tersely and in an inappropriately uncouth manner, but it was for her all the same. Would this make Littlefinger forsake her plan and actively seek to bring down Lord Bolton? Perhaps she should inform her husband-to-be; she had seen how he had stripped Littlefinger of his basic civility. Before she could mull over her thoughts further, she spotted Theon Greyjoy across the hall. ‘Excuse me, my lord’ 

Lord Bolton stared at her with surprise as she hurried past him without another word of acknowledgement. She grabbed Theon by the shoulder, wincing when her step-brother shuddered fearfully at the sudden contact. ‘Theon! Where have you been?’ 

The Ironboy managed to smile, but it was unlike the smiles he usually reserved for her. ‘I was on sentry duty for the past few days’ 

‘Oh’ she muttered, feeling silly for worrying so much. ‘I thought you had set for the iron islands without saying goodbye’ 

She felt his hand wrap around hers tightly, ‘I won’t leave, Sansa’ 

She smiled at him, ‘Good. Will I see you for archery practice tomorrow?’ 

He nodded, but something caught his attention behind her back, causing his face to pale in response. Sansa turned around to find Lord Bolton, from his seat at the high table, glowering down at Sansa. She could not see his eyes clearly, but the moonlight mists of his orbs were clearly disapproving. She bid Theon goodnight and hoped she would slip into her room undetected. 

*** 

She knew it was far too early to retire to bed, but Sansa had changed into her nightgown and settled on her stomach, cheerily reading Lord Bolton’s gifts. In her current position, she felt like she was a child again, huddled on her bed with Jeyne Poole, unable to read yet but flicking through the pages and pointing at the illustrations of ladies and knights with such giddiness. 

The door opened without any announcement, to reveal Lord Bolton at its step. For a heavy moment the two of them stared at each other without uttering a word; Sansa expectant of what is to come next, while Lord Bolton’s gaze traced Sansa’s sprawled position on the furs. She aimed to straighten up into a sitting position but he stopped her with a quick gesture of his hands, ‘No, as you were’ 

Hesitantly, she remained stretched out on her bed with her eyes trained on the open book before her. She felt the bed dip beside her hips, informing her of Lord Bolton’s proximity. He spoke lightly, almost distractedly, ‘Are you enjoying the book?’ 

‘Very much, my lord’ she noticed her voice is small and hurried. 

He grunted in approval, one hand moving to rest at the small of her back. Sansa felt a shock grip her body at the feel of him; after being so touch-starved Sansa welcomed his hand on her. ‘Good, Sansa’ He murmured, his thumb rubbing against the material of her gown, ‘Continue reading’ 

_How?_ She held her breath, blindly moving her gaze over the open page , and all she could focus on was the circles Lord Bolton’s thumb were drawing on her skin. His hand slid further down until he palmed her arse, Sansa shook on the elbows that kept her up, letting out a hoarse sigh in response. Roose Bolton hummed in approval, as his hand cupped one cheek, dragging it upwards and then letting it bounce back into place quite painfully for Sansa. Uncontrollably, she rubbed her thighs together to dull the growing ache at her already wet core. ‘Lord..’ 

‘Be still, and read, Sansa’ It was an order, she realised. His voice was every inch the controlled and detached lord, but his hand glided hungrily to her exposed calves; running his fingers up and down her skin until Sansa aimed to move. A tsk tsk sound came from Lord Bolton as both his hands pushed her back to lie down on her stomach again, and slowly returned to torture her. She whined raggedly as both his hands tugged her nightgown up until it bunched around her waist, exposing her small clothes to Lord Bolton’s ministrations. 

‘What are you reading now?’ He was unfurling the knots holding her small clothes around her hips, Sansa was delirious, all the heat in her body boiling over at every tug and graze of his fingers. 

She blinked back several times at the words, keening distractedly as Lord Bolton put a hand under her belly, lifting her slightly off the bed so he could slip off her small clothes. ‘Hmm, Sansa?’ 

‘J-jonquil a-and’ She inhaled sharply as Lord Bolton spread her thighs apart, ‘Jonquil and Florian the Fool’ 

Sansa throws her head onto the bed and moans gutturally when she felt his finger lazily flick up and down her wet folds. ‘I..’ she could nearly focus on her breathing, her elbows could no longer carry her, Sansa rubs her face into the furs, trying to buck her hips into Lord Bolton’s grasp more. 

‘you’ll be still’ he ordered, one digit gathering the wetness at her slit to spread it across her folds, when Lord Bolton’s thumb grazed against her throbbing nub of nerves, Sansa let out a helpless cry. ‘You’re not reading’ 

She wanted to tilt her head to the side and look him in the eyes, but she couldn’t; too paralyzed in her wanton position to speak, move, or breathe. He removed his hand from between her legs, causing Sansa to move her hips in abandon at the loss of touch. _What is he doing to me?_ , She wanted to cry. She remembered his previous orders, jerkingly got on her elbows again and positioned her bleary eyed gaze over the book again. His fingers were back inside her in an instant, caressing her folds until Sansa started jerking against his fingers. The gripping tension was slowly building as she maintained a rhythm, her nub of nerves grazing painfully against Lord Bolton’s fingers; he had stopped moving and let her seek her pleasure. When she felt so close and had started to convulse jerkily, Lord Bolton leaned forward until his lips reached her ears and whispered harshly, ‘Do you like how I make you feel, Sansa?’

She hummed distractedly her answer, brain muddled with her desire coupled with his deep rumbling voice in her ear. In absolute horror, Roose Bolton removed his hand from between her legs and stood up by her bed. 

‘No’ she wept into her arm, hiding her face there until she could compose herself again. She was _so_ close, how could he? Sansa turned her head sideways until she was looking up at her lord. He stood, imposing and rigid, with his darkened gaze full of reciprocated lust taking in Sansa’s immobile body. His nose flared when she let out one last frustrated moan. 

‘You’ve wanted to postpone it, my lady’ he reminded her cruelly, ‘I’m only here to remind you that your hand in marriage is still mine; not the Greyjoy’s, nor anyone else’s’ 

She wobbled on her two arms as she tried to straighten up. Pushing her dampened hair away from her sweat-covered face, Sansa took small breaths as she stared up directly at Lord Bolton, ‘I postponed it for your safety’ 

‘my safety?’ he held her from her forearms, with an expression of furrowed brows. 

‘Yes’ Sansa said between clenched teeth; she wished she would not be so affected by his presence. ‘If Littlefinger had heard about our betrothal, he would’ve killed you, like he killed Joffrey; no evidence pointing to him, nothing’ 

Letting go of her, Lord Bolton had an unfathomable look on his face. ‘He spoke of murdering me?’ 

‘He told me it would make me queen of the iron throne. He would get rid of the Warden, a Stark would marry a man of the Vale and we would take on Stannis and the Lannisters, or what remained of them’ she muttered bitterly. She watched Lord Bolton seat himself beside her, eyes searching her face for the truth. 

‘Why would you protect me?’ He enunciated every word quite clearly with an air of impatience. ‘I murdered your brother. You could’ve gotten your revenge and captured the North for yourself if you sided with Baelish’ 

It moved of its own accord, but her hand sought his, ‘He would’ve killed you’ 

‘You would’ve been Queen, free of me’ His voice was barely a whisper, the crackle of the fireplace almost masking it. 

_I care for you. You’ve taught me everything and saved me from the Lannisters. I care for you._ She wanted to say, but instead Sansa sat on her knees and pushed herself into Lord Bolton’s arms. One arm circled around his neck, pulling him closer until their noses were grazing against each other; she looked at his jaw, tensed and set in control. ‘I don’t need Little finger to make me Queen’ Sansa rested her free hand upon his chest, feeling a certain glow at the way his hear beat feverishly under her touch. ‘I can make you King of the North, my lord’ 

He stilled under her touch, spurring her to continue. ‘You have the military might, and I have the Stark claim; we do not need to follow the crown any longer. We can be an independent North’ 

’Stannis will be my last battle’ he murmured soberly, ‘I am sick of fighting, Sansa’ 

‘I would make you king’ she nearly begged. ‘There is no where else I would feel safe except by your side. If we were to be married, we would rule the North independently; away from the crown. Please tell me you see the logic of it’ 

‘And Baelish?’ Sansa knew he was bidding his time to consider her proposal. _Sansa the Kingmaker_ , Cersei would’ve laughed at her. 

‘I will handle Lord Baelish’ 

Lord Bolton growled at her, pulling her on his lap in order to face her directly. ‘I’m not a babe in need of your protection, girl’ 

She met his glowering gaze and pushed her chin up at him. ‘I know that, my lord. You’re in need of someone who knows how Littlefinger plays the game, I have watched him and I know what he wants’ 

‘He wants you’ He spat furiously. Sansa’s eyes widened at him, she had meant that Lord Baelish wanted the throne for himself. Lord Bolton wrapped one arm around her waist and pressed her flush against his hard chest, ‘but you’re mine, Sansa’ 

Shaking her head sluggishly through the returning haze of desire, Sansa tried to maintain a straight face. ‘Do you agree to my proposition, Lord Bolton?’ 

‘ _Yes_ ’ His eyes burned feverishly into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL HAIL SANSA THE KINGMAKER.


	23. Pretense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Roose begin their game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on a whim with Roose's backstory, as we don't really have anything to tell us what his childhood was like or who is parents are; so expect some snippets of his childhood popping here and there. I felt that it would give some humane qualities to him if we sort of understood why he was so messed up lol. 
> 
> HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY x

Roose could not remember a time when he had not ceaselessly plotted and fought for the survival of his house. As a young boy at his father’s knees, Roose grew up with his father’s ruthless and cruel lessons instilled in him. _Fight, never cease, never bow down, go to the farthest limits._ And to the farthest limits, he had gone. 

The Dreadfort was not unlike all the other strongholds in the North–– basked in eery snow, and terribly forlorn for a lone Bolton son. It never bothered Roose, he had experienced some loneliness as a result of his mother’s untimely death at only thirteen, but other than that, he was quite uninterested in pursuing company, or anything else, but following his father’s commands. The late Lord Bolton was a formidable man; cruel, ruthless, and quick-to anger. Roose could remember all the times he had displeased his father, leading to horrible lashing that left the young Roose bleeding terribly, but determined to wade through the pain and not show his hurt; it usually spurred his father to inflict harsher punishment. It was how Roose developed his silent, unperturbed nature. Bending quietly to his lord father’s hostility until he could no longer distinguish where his father’s influence ended within his character, and where his own began. _Fight, never cease, and bugger those Starks_ ; his lord father detested the Starks with their haughtiness and strict moral code. Roose had agreed with him on this matter, the Starks would shame and belittle the Boltons because of their torturing schemes during the War, forgetting how the Winterfell lords had come to power in the first place. 

His father had once reminded Roose that although the Starks spoke of mercy, duty, and honor, they had never batted an eyelash at inflicting mass horrors to maintain their rule over the land. Perhaps the one thing Roose had enjoyed growing up was his books and the strange, ethereal stories in them, and he recalled the stories he used to read as a child. Stories of the Age of Heroes, when Stark lords brought all of the North to its knees, stories of King Harlon Stark besieging the Dreadfort for two years, starving the entire population and then massacring the lot of them. The Boltons may have flayed their enemies in the past, they may resort to cruel interrogation schemes today, but the Starks were no better; anyone with a position to hold would not think twice about incurring violence to survive. Nearly pushing fifty, Roose Bolton had resorted to all sort of schemes to remain in the game; he had fought under the banners of Stark, Baratheon, and Arryn against the buggering Targaryens, he followed the Young Wolf during the war of Five Kings, and whittled out all the Ironborn from the North. His was a road paved out of blood, steel, and deceit. He was done. Tired of fighting, and scheming, and lying; he wanted his new reign as Warden of the North to begin with one final battle to destroy Stannis Baratheon, and then he would have some peace, and Sansa. 

_Sansa._

The girl wanted to make him king. And she, _his_ queen. He had thought her of the same temperament as himself; she would have been tired as well, after suffering so in King’s Landing, Roose half expected her to agree to be his wife so that they would try to live peacefully in the North, and overtime she would give him heirs; and the Bolton line would remain. But she had surprised him time and again, firstly by admitting that she had been trying to protect him from Baelish, and secondly, by outmaneuvering Baelish in his own game. Was Roose impressed with her? Oh, yes. She knew how to play the game well, his little wolf. She had whispered and entreated him to agree to let her _make_ him king; and how could he say no to that little river sprite? 

After he had acquiesced to her proposition, Sansa had relayed to him her conversation with Littlefinger in the godswood. Her formulated plan was not dissatisfactory to Roose; he was not one to jump blindly with a sword to swing at Baelish, no, he quite enjoyed Sansa’s slow and simmering idea of a plan. Roose would let her pretend like she was courting and seducing him for Baelish’s sake, until they had Baelish relaxed and secure within their grasp. Then they could _squeeze_. 

*** 

The clash of steel resounded through the courtyard of Winterfell. Roose was at a heavy session of training with his soldiers this morning, garbed in his chainmail and leathers, the cold still licked at his cheeks harshly. He still managed to smirk, Stannis would not stand a chance. Roose’s riders had spotted the marching Baratheon horde; they were coming, but at a sluggish pace. Winterfell’s forces would bid their time, close off the walls and live on Sansa’s cleverly designed rations system. Roose returned his attention back to his man, he was not alarmed, they would triumph over Stannis. However, that did not stop him from pushing his men to the very limits during training. 

His longsword fell again and again at his opponent’s shield, gaining ground until the soldier smashed onto the dirt ground and shouted his surrender. Roose extended his hand, ‘Again’ 

The soldier was tired, but he took his lord’s hand and resumed his stance. Roose’s steel ceaselessly battered the man’s shield, allowing him no respite to think his next move; if a war came upon them, there would be no time to _think_ , only to fight. Once they were done, the young man bowed to his lord and paired off with another at Roose Bolton’s instruction. Handing his sword to his steward, Roose chucked off his chainmail and stood chugging water in his damp linen shirt. He caught Sansa loitering at the corner of the clearing, staring blatantly at him. He couldn’t help the smirk that tinted his lips, he marched towards her. 

‘My lady Sansa’ He smiled smugly at her alarm, but she quickly composed herself, taking a distancing step back. Roose leaned against the wooden shed’s wall, arms crossed against his chest, staring at a stray hair caressing Sansa’s cheek. He glanced at her usual Tully colored frock, regretting that he had pushed her to burn the Bolton dress she had fashioned for herself. _Soon_ , he reassured his irate thoughts. Her long, luminous auburn hair was meticulously braided, and trailed down her back. Roose was amused to note that she had self-consciously tucked the strand of hair he was staring at behind her small ear.

She curtsied blushingly, ‘My lord’   
‘Have you come to watch the men train?’ he watched her gauge his amused tone, relaxing her tensed stance. She nodded, ‘Amongst other things’ 

His smirk deepened. 

’Tell me, Sansa’ he leaned closer to her, ‘is our little friend about?’

His little wolf didn’t need to scour the vicinity, she was careful. Nodding, she murmured controllably, ‘He is watching from the parapets’ 

‘Hmm’ Roose simply kept his eyes glued on Sansa’s controlled face. 

‘Why are you looking at me as such?’ she was growing uneasy.

‘Waiting for your command, my lady, it is your plan after all’ 

She had scrutinized his chest in concentration, but at his words she brought her eyes in level with his and smiled sweetly. Roose decided that he liked the Stark girl’s smile. ‘I think we should show Lord Baelish that I am starting to show success at winning you over’ 

‘Quite right, my lady’ the two of them had been littering small, intimate interactions along the past few days. Sansa would bat her lashes and blush at Roose, her hands would brush against him as they dined with Baelish. Roose would make a show of watching after Sansa as she exited the room, holding her chair for her pointedly, and at one time she had even leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, with Baelish smiling knowingly in the periphery of Roose’s eyes. To what extent their little interactions were true, Roose was not sure. Sansa was a strange creature to him now; at times, he found himself doubting whether she was good at pretending and scheming as he was. He played with the people around him to further his own interests; was he a piece to Sansa as well? to move as she pleased? But he recalled the ways she shivered when his touch lingered too long on her as he passed her wine goblet, or when she had whispered in his ears – she had not said anything really, just pretending for Lord Baelish’s sake – but her hot, rushing breath had told him how shaken she was at his proximity. Staring down at Sansa now, Roose wondered if she thought of his hands between her things, bringing her pleasure. Or was she pretending before as she had been for the past week? 

He needed to regain control, to show her that he was lord of her, of all of them. ‘Acknowledge him first, Sansa. Look up at him and nod’ 

Roose made it seem as if he was distracted by looking at his men sparring, when he turned back to look at Sansa, she was lowering her gaze back to him. ‘He smiled’ 

‘Good’ Roose murmured, he uncrossed his arms and wrapped one around Sansa’s waist, pulling her flush against him. She widened her eyes at him for a brief, fleeting moment, then willed her face into a coquettish expression. Roose felt like a damned fool, stirrings within him making him wish that Sansa would not be pretending. ’Now, how would you seduce a man, my lady?’ 

He watched her mind whirr, but was disappointed when she finally shook her hand, letting him nestle her further into him. ‘I don’t know, my lord’ 

‘Well then’ Roose murmured, ‘let me instruct you. I made the first move of holding you, my ward will now whisper something in my ear.’ 

Sansa’s breath got shallower, ‘what kind of something?’ 

‘A promise for later’ he said pointedly, and Sansa looked away. However, she accepted his proposition, and leaned towards him, her lips brushing against his ear. Roose breathed in her scent, and shuttered his lids. ‘Have you been seduced much before, my lord?’ she murmured simply. 

His free-hand snaked to cup the nape of her neck, bringing her back to stare directly at him. ‘Would it displease you to know I have?’ When she only held his gaze in defiance, lips thinning into a grim line, Roose let loose the impatience that had been building. ‘Kiss me, you little fool’ 

She met his gaze and quickly pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Her lips were soft and warm against his, just as Roose had remembered. It was a chaste kiss that made Roose pull her testily closer to him, feeling her respond by sighing into his mouth. Baelish be damned, Roose had been waiting for her to kiss him; the realization made him ache for her even more, he grabbed hold of her braid greedily. They slowly parted, lips lingering slightly against each other. Roose unhooked his fist from around her braid, and took a step back first, watching how his little wolf looked; cheeks tinged red and eyes bright, staring at him as if she just realized he was there. 

‘Now leave’ he instructed her, gaze burning into hers. ‘leave me wondering’ 

Sansa blinked rapidly at him, and then took her leave of him, slipping back into the castle. Roose clenched his fist, and turned to face the direction where he knew Baelish could clearly see him. 

The problem was, Roose realized, is that he wasn’t really pretending.


	24. Eye to Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sets on a path to bring down Baelish. Roose decides to confront her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads will roll blares as I write this chapter.

As Sansa stood watching Theon practice his cross and bow, she reminisced over the many times she had passed by the archery training of Robb, Jon, and Theon. Arya had always tried to beg Ser Rodrik Cassel to let her join, but the man was adamant that she would not. Lady Stark would never let him hear the end of it. 

Everyone is gone now, Sansa sighed heavily. _Only myself and Theon._

‘Do you reckon your cousin would like to learn?’ Theon was slinging on another arrow, and stood ready to aim. ‘Archery, I mean.’ 

Sansa smiled at the Ironborn as his arrow landed precisely on his target. ‘You would like to teach him? Like Ser Cassel?’ 

Their eyes met. ‘I was just thinking of him’ 

‘Me too’ Sansa sighed heavily, then frowned. ‘I don’t know my cousin well, but he is very ill. Lord Baelish says he will not last long’ 

Theon set his bow aside and turned to Sansa with a despondent expression. ‘Has he always been a sickly child?’ 

Sansa blinked. ‘I..I’m not sure.’ She remembered her cousin smiling at Baelish through the haze wrought by the Maester’s strange concoction. _He wouldn’t._

‘It would be a shame for your one remaining family to perish. Perhaps we can send for a Maester from the Citadel with more experience?’ 

Sansa was deep in thought but she refocused her attentions to Theon who sat on the wooden platform opposite her. ‘Perhaps. But I still have family, Theon.’ 

The Ironborn had a pained expression as he looked away from Sansa. She hoped he would understand that she had meant him as well, not just Bran and Rickon. 

‘Where could they have gone?’ Her voice sounded desperate. 

‘I do not know, Sansa’ Theon looked up to her again, ‘would they have gone to Jon? At Castle Black?’ 

Sansa shook her head. ‘Jon has heard of my presence in Winterfell, even if he had been exceedingly busy with Stannis, he would have managed to send a Raven reassuring me of their wellbeing. No, they are somewhere else.’ 

‘Would you consider telling Lord Bolton? Ask him if he will look for your brothers?’ Theon asked softly with an inquisitive gaze. 

She shuddered slightly at the implications in his words. Would she trust Lord Bolton with this secret? What would he do if he found out the survival of two Stark heirs? ‘Why would I tell Lord Bolton, Theon? He would get rid of them for his claim to the North’ 

‘Yes, but—‘ he hesitated before he finally spoke, ‘—you’ve grown closer, I noticed. P-perhaps he would help you?’ 

Sansa widened her eyes at her companion and turned to look away. It was quite apparent to everyone now that their pretense was becoming more and more flagrant. Had rumours of their kiss in the courtyard reached Theon? ‘I cant tell if he would help’ 

The Ironborn did not speak again. They both looked at their sooty boots in silence. 

*** 

Roose stumbled upon Sansa as he walked back to his room after his morning brief at the War Council. She seemed to be waiting for him infront of his door with a determined face. He found his gaze lingering over the lips she was tirelessly biting in concentration. 

‘Sansa’ he greeted her, and saw her clench up even more in her tense position, arms crossing against her chest as if to ward him off. 

She nodded sharply at him, ‘My lord’ 

Roose leaned forward to kiss her, but she was quick to turn her head, his lips instead skidding across her inflamed cheeks. He did not straighten up immediately, but stood there leaning over her in thought. This is the second time she had denied him a kiss in private; either Sansa Stark enjoyed an audience when she projected her affections, or she truly was play-acting. _And I am the biggest fool._

Once he straightened and stared down at Sansa, Roose realised that something was upsetting her. 

‘Something is wrong, my lord’ she said tersely, ‘with my cousin Robert, and I need your help’ 

He raised one eyebrow. ‘What has happened? Has his condition grown worse?’ 

‘That is precisely the problem. It is not natural, I fear there may be foul-play’ She stared at him pointedly. 

After he had pushed her inside his chambers, he asked her to explain very quietly and calmly, now that they were out of the vicinity of eavesdropping. She glanced around her anxiously then she turned those large Tully eyes on him, and Roose felt, to his own dismay, that he would do whatever she wanted. The sentiment irritated and disgusted him.  
‘I believe that Sweetrobin is being poisoned’ 

He considered her carefully, eyes searching her pained expression. ‘You have evidence of this?’ 

‘I have a feeling’ 

Roose raised one eyebrow at her. He had never made a move in his life while depending on nothing else but a _feeling_ , and he would not do it now. But the look on Sansa’s face made him think otherwise; hadn’t his Little Wolf always surprised him with her potential? 

‘And what is it?’ He decided to give it a chance. 

Sansa disheartened eyes slowly gained confidence. ‘Lord Baelish gives my cousin this strange liquid in a vial. Could we bring the contents to our own maester to test it?’ 

‘If your cousin is to die, who would take over the Vale?’ 

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it in reassurance; more for herself than for him. ‘I told you before that Littlefinger wanted me to marry Harrold for he is next in line, but he said he would get rid of Harold overtime’ 

‘If he gets rid of one heir, he can get rid of the other’ Roose nodded in tandem with her reasoning. The serpent had carefully mastered his plan, but did he truly think that by killing Robert Arryn, and with Sansa as Queen in the North, he would be so easily granted the title of Lord of the Eyrie and the Vale? 

Roose glanced back to Sansa and said, ‘Could you be able to get the vial?’ 

‘I can try’ she murmured determinedly. 

He believed she could. 

*** 

Sansa set out for Sweetrobin’s chambers after dinner. Littlefinger was still in the dining hall, watching in rapt attention how the men were reacting to the self-enforced siege they were in. Sansa knew that Roose was aware of the growing dissatisfaction amongst the men, but they’ve had word that Stannis’ horde was slowly crumbling from within; camping out in the open plains with winter at its height would be the death of them. Lord Bolton was right. With Littlefinger out of the way, and her small cousin already asleep because of the draught, Sansa was able to turn the room upside down to find a vial. She searched under her cousin’s bed until she was found an almost empty bottle, probably had escaped under the bed overtime. There was still a small amount at the base of the vial, it would be enough for the maester to inspect. She clutched it and hurried to Lord Bolton’s room. 

 

He was already there, waiting for her as he stalked up and down his bedroom. When she shut the door behind her, his eyes whirred towards her in contained relief. Sansa opened up the palm of her hand to show him her success, Roose smiled wickedly at her. 

‘Very well, Sansa’ he took the vial from her extended hand, and placed it on his desk, turning to look back to her. ‘Was it simple enough?’ 

Sansa felt her breath grow shallower as Lord Bolton crept towards her with the predator smile on his face. She wanted him to hold her, to have her between his arms, to drape her over his bed and litter kisses all over her body. The vision of her brothers swam before her and Sansa steeled herself against the advance she would be putting an end to. She wanted him, but she was terrified of giving all control over only to be a fool; a damned trusting fool who would let her brothers’ murderer have her. Sansa held her breath as Lord Bolton’s hands ran up her forearms delicately, his touch leaving in its wake goosebumps. 

‘My lord’ she whined miserably as she extricated herself from his grasp, ‘we can’t’ 

Sansa watched the light-hearted gray eyes harden into icy cold indignation. Lord Bolton grabbed her from her belt and slammed her into his chest with restrained irritation. ‘You’re only willing for an audience, Sansa? Do you think you can play me a fool with your cunt?’ 

Her eyes widened in surprise, he had rarely been so coarse with her. ‘You do not understand, my lord––‘  
‘–– I understand that you think this marriage is one of convenience for you, one where you can taunt me and do what you please afterwards. But that is not what this is, my lady. You cannot pretend for me as well, I see right through you’ He spoke between clenched jaws, eyes blazing with rage. 

She could not take it anymore. Sansa fisted the front of his shirt in frustration and the words erupted out of her. ‘I am not _pretending_! I am scared and i am being careful’ 

The narrowed eyes he set on her made her let go of Lord Bolton, and pushed him away from her. She let out a shuddering breath and leaned against his door to gather enough courage to speak. ‘I-I like it when you touch me, but it frightens me’ 

Roose did not come towards her again, but stood here staring at her blankly. ‘Tell me what you are afraid of’ 

‘of what you’ll do’  
‘what I’ll do with what, Sansa’ He took a step closer. 

This was it, she told herself. If she spoke the truth she would know whether she could truly trust Lord Bolton or not. If he threatens her and her brothers, there would only be herself to shoulder through the pain; her brothers were out there and perhaps Roose Bolton would never find them. He would only flay her. She met his glowering eyes and muttered, ‘when you find out that my brothers are alive’ 

He looked taken off guard. Sansa had surprised him, then. 

It took forever for his face to be arranged back into his emblematic mask of impassiveness. Roose regarded Sansa cooly, frightening her even more. She remembered all the times she had won Joffrey if she begged sweetly and painfully enough, and before she could stop herself, Sansa goes down on her knees before him and starts to beg. 

Before the tears poured down her face and she could begin a string of self-depreciating sentences to beg for her brothers’ lives, Roose Bolton quickly pulled Sansa to her feet. 

He was _livid_. ‘Never do that again. You will be queen, queens do not beg. You should never beg me for anything, Sansa, I will not have it’ the tears run profusely down her cheeks, and Sansa realized that the sight elevated his anger quite a bit for his hand cupped her cheek delicately, ‘I will not harm or kill your brothers.’ 

She shut her eyes against the softness in his tone. She wanted to believe him more than anything, ‘but will you send scouts to find them?’

He was silent. When Sansa opens her tear filled eyes, she watched him give her a pointed look. Sansa felt conflicted within her core, her husband to be will not harm her brothers, but he will not lift a finger to bring the Stark heirs to Winterfell himself. It would be political suicide. 

She leaned further into his touch, his thumb caressing her skin. ‘Can _I_ look for them?’

‘As queen you may do what you like.’


	25. Sated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes the first move. Roose obliges her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok we've had enough plotting and planning. Porn-without-Plot is what this is.

It didn’t take long for Sansa to acknowledge that she felt relief at Lord Bolton’s promise. He would not harm her brothers, and she believed him. They were at a sort of standstill now; they both saw eye to eye, and there were no longer any secrets between them. It was time for one of them to make the first move. Sansa felt a feverish eagerness in the air. 

Restless determination flooded Sansa as she sat beside Lord Bolton some nights later, watching his immersed reading of a letter. _Lord Frey inquiring about the presence of the Vale knights_ , he had murmured distractedly when she raised her eyebrows in questioning. He wasn’t paying attention to her, she realized, but instead was reading the letter thoughtfully. Stealing a hurried glance over his leather-clad body next to her, she wondered why he had never let her touch him as he had touched her. He had never pushed her, nor asked her to _touch_ him. 

She was gripped by a foreign force, it was the only explanation, for she slowly set her quill down from working on the ledgers, and sat on the edge of her seat. She placed her hand carefully upon Lord Bolton’s knee and waited for his reaction. 

Nothing. 

She brought her gaze up to find him drawn to the letter he poured over. His brows remained furrowed in concentration, his lips a thin line, and his moonlight mist eyes brimming with thoughts. She edged her palm upwards in a slow motion, gliding over the leather of his breeches, feeling the muscles of his thighs tighten imperceptibly as she inched closer to his groin. Sansa kept her eyes on Lord Bolton’s impassive expression, he seemed unperturbed that she was brazenly touching him as such. Finding no further access to his body from the way he leaned over the table, Sansa felt so ridiculous. 

_What am I doing?_ , she blushed red, removing her hand in embarrassment as Lord Bolton shifted in his seat and leaned back into his chair, spreading his legs wide open. He clutched her retreating hand, without even taking his eyes off the letter, and brought it back where she had last touched him; at the top of his thigh. She shuddered out breathlessly, aware of her stiffening nipples grazing against the bodice of her frock, her body on fire as with one finger Sansa traced her way up to bulge between his thighs. She watched his unperturbed face with fascination, but she could clearly see Lord Bolton’s free hand clutching the armrest till his fists turned white with exertion. This was, she realised, an experiment for her— Sansa did not know what she was doing, or what would please him. But she could tell that feeling his manhood through his breeches was to his liking, even if his face showed nothing. He had hardened slightly under her exploring finger; she delicately removed her finger, an irritated sound resounds in the back of Lord Bolton’s throat in response. _I wonder_ , she thought as her hand self-consciously cupped his groin. 

This time, Lord Bolton fisted the letter instantly. 

She smiled inwardly for her small victory. Glancing quickly as the letter crumpled from his fist to the ground, Sansa palmed him with hurried inexperience through the material of his breeches. She watched him throw his head back, eyes shut as if in pain, with his jaws set tightly. 

‘My lord..I..tell me what to do’ she called for him through the apparent haze he was in. She needed to please him, to show him her affection in a way. 

His eyes tore open, glowering with desire; she could not tell if he hated or wanted her.  
He removed her hand, and before her crestfallen expression would fully resurface, Sansa found herself deposited on his lap. ‘You can kiss me.’ 

They met each others’ gazes steadily, both her hands locked together in his large fist against his chest. Sansa shook her head, ‘You kiss me. Like you’re not pretending, my lord. Please.’ 

She knew he hesitated, searching her face for sincerity. Sansa hoped the eager and hopeful expression she had was evidence enough. _I am trying to trust you, meet me halfway_ , she urged him with her eyes. 

His gaze softened imperceptibly, and Lord Bolton leaned forward until his lips sought hers. Sansa came to the realisation that her husband-to-be enjoyed taking his time whilst kissing her; his lips sloppily and lazily moving against her, showing Sansa the extent of his hunger. She tried to move her hands but he tightened his hold further on them, ‘don’t move’ he muttered against her mouth. 

Sansa could do nothing but accept that she was utterly under his mercy. She felt him thrusting his hardened manhood against her, his tongue seeking passage into her mouth. She tipped her head back helplessly, and let him deepen the kiss. The slickness between her thighs intensified, and she felt the growing frustration of being held immobile. Lord Bolton moved his lips to her neck, nipping her delicate skin and alleviating the redness with his lips, and that was when Sansa began whimpering for release. 

‘Still think I am pretending, my lady?’ He rumbled into the crook of her neck, his hips rolled against her arse painfully slow. 

She was close to sobbing, ‘No-o, I’m not either. But.. _please_ ’ 

Perhaps it was the desperation in her voice, perhaps Lord Bolton needed _something_ to be sated just as badly. He pushed her slightly off of him, letting go of her wrists, as he made quick work of the laces of his breeches. Sansa inhaled sharply at the sight of his freed manhood, standing tall and stiff against his stomach, its tip glistening. She slowly brought her gaze on level with his, seeking his permission or instruction, whatever he was willing to give. ‘I won’t have you before we are properly wed, Sansa’ he rumbled thickly, ‘but there are other things we can do’ 

She shook in his arms as he pushed her skirts over her knees, groping until he found her small clothes. She kept her eyes on his burning orbs as he slid the garment over her legs, tossing it at his feet. ‘Very well’ she murmured. 

Sansa felt his large hand grab hers, and wrapped it along his stiff length. Lord Bolton let out a painful groan as he showed Sansa how to move her hand in a rhythm he liked. Once she had gotten the hang of it, he let go of her and fell back into his chair. Sansa was extremely self-conscious of her inexperienced touch, but she drew her palm slowly in motion along his shaft in tandem with his sighs and groans. Suddenly, she was so overcome that she leaned forward and kissed him shyly on the lips. It seemed to revive him from the lustful blanket he was wrapped in. Sansa felt him part her legs, and just as she had hoped, his hand found its way to the heat between her legs. Her grip on him was assured, albeit inexperienced, but Sansa had a rhythm. However, her moves became jerky and sloppy once Lord Bolton began rubbing his fingers against her nub. She rested her head against his chest and found the escalating tension in her body almost maddening, but she kept her ministrations on his arousal. 

Their rhythms turned equally disjointed, Sansa's moans echoing around the room, Lord Bolton grunting aggressively, thrusting into her hand. Finally, a guttural groan ripped from his throat, and Sansa felt the gush of liquid around her hand. He breathed with difficulty, pressing a quick lethargic kiss to her lower lip as his fingers rubbed against her; quicker and more aggressive. She sobbed against his mouth, feeling raw pleasure and pain at being handled so coarsely. ‘Roose’ she moaned, feeling herself tighten one last time before shattering at his brisk touch. 

Roose Bolton reached for a handkerchief on the table and cleaned Sansa from his seed, and laced his breeches again. Sansa could barely move, and so she let herself sag against him, his arms moving to wrap themselves around her. She listened to the heavy beating of his heart under his ear, and wondered if as a husband he would come to love her, and if she could come to love him. 

‘Would you like to be married in a fortnight?’ He finally asked her. 

Sansa raised her eyebrows in surprise that he should ask her opinion on that matter, but she shouldn’t be; Lord Bolton had sought and listened to her opinions on all matters, from maintaining rations to dealing with Lord Baelish. ‘Yes, please’ 

Lord Bolton _laughed_. She wanted to savor the feeling forever.


	26. Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose feels too much that he does not like.

When Roose woke, Sansa was in his arms. He had made himself clear countless times over the week; they would not share the same bed until their wedding night, nor would they do whatever it was that had transpired a few nights before. Yet the night before, Sansa had come to him in the middle of the night, all bowed lashes and a cryptic smile, and like a fool, Roose let her under the furs with him. Atleast, she had slept instantly, without taunting him with her body, nor asking him for anything–– even if that had disappointed Roose. In his bed the following morning, Sansa felt like a sure, and warm presence that he was still unable to comprehend. He remembered feeling quite content with his previous two wives; they were true ladies and had pleased him in bed, but Roose had not felt a certainty towards them as he felt for Sansa Stark. Perhaps his heart had went out for Bethany when they had lost Domeric suddenly, Roose did not love her, but he remembered the countless nights of rocking her grief-stricken figure in his arms, as if trying to keep her with him in the real world. She had died of grief in the end, seeking out Domeric’s company than Roose’s harsh one in the Dreadfort, no matter how hard he tried to show her that he felt her grief, that he mourned their son, she never quite felt that it was enough of Roose; she had wanted _all_ of him–– and he did not think himself able to do so. 

He found himself rubbing his nose against Sansa’s temple, he had grown protective of the girl; took her under his wing, taught her everything a Northern lady should know, watched her flourish into her potential by embracing the lessons she had learned in Kings Landing and his own, and, he loathed himself to admit it, felt a burgeoning likeness to the girl. He simply did not know if that was because he felt unhinged by the mere idea of _having_ her soon, or because every time he heard her laugh or hum a tune made him stop in his tracks and blink several times at how his entire being was drawn to her. 

Roose opened his eyes and almost lost his cool looking at her. Her leg was splayed around his waist, her silken nightgown bunched up in his fist, he could see that she wore nothing underneath, but he already knew that when she had walked into his arms earlier, a soft mound of red curls were exposed and above them the tender flesh of her stomach, her skin shone under the thrown lights by the fireplace. Roose brought his gaze up to her face, looking at her glistening nose, the way her lashes rested on her cheeks, how the air flew in and out of her mouth. God that mouth, Roose thought of all the times he had sat there watching her read reports, worrying her lips with her teeth until he wanted to chuck her by the front of her frock onto his lap and kiss her senseless. 

She stirred momentarily in her sleep, a sound escaped her and she twisted her upper body away from Roose. He watched the unlaced shoulder of her nightgown slide down her forearm, the silk exposing a rounded breast, the delicate nipple pert at the feel of air brushing against it. He had never seen her fully naked before, there was a rush he had not felt in quite a while, and the semi hardness he had woken up with began tenting against his trousers, aching for her. He untangled her nightgown from his fist, and the movement caused her to press into him; his hardness positioned against her exposed stomach. When he feels her delicate flesh against him, he groaned in the back of his throat. Surprisingly, she answered his frustration with a moan, her upper body returned into its initial position, her lips brushing into the side of his neck, and her breast rubs against his linen shirt. 

He should have kicked her out, Roose reprimanded himself, he should’ve been unaffected by the shy way she had slipped through his door with such hopefulness and sent her back to her room. She murmured his name, bringing him back from his tiresome thoughts. He pulled away slightly, to check if she was awake but she had her eyes closed. Sansa sighed contentedly and exposed her neck to him, he could feel her shudder in his arms, her breathing uneven and erratic. She was awake now, he smirked, but has her eyes closed as if afraid that if she showed it he will stop. Roose was of no mind to stop, but he had to, or else he will not be able to control himself. He nestled his hardness more into the heat of her stomach. She made a feral sound that brings a smile to his intense expression, leaning forwards he ghosts over her lips with his own.

‘That wasn’t a proper kiss’ she muttered sleepily, frowning as he pulled away from her.   
Roose looked at her pointedly, but she evaded his gaze. ‘A proper kiss for my proper lady wife’ 

She groaned with irritation, and it amused Roose Bolton to find her so interested in his kisses. He got up and moved to get dressed for the day; he felt Sansa’s feverish gaze on his body. ‘I am meeting the Maester this morning, he will have had news of your cousin’s medicine’ 

‘Will you wait for me as I dress?’ She murmured hesitantly, ‘I would like to join you’ 

He stared at her. ‘Ofcourse’ 

 

*** 

Roose and Sansa sat opposite the Maester. He began to notice that while his face was the amused coolness that did not betray the thoughts behind, Sansa’s was an icy cold mask; the river sprite transformed into a ruthless winter-queen with a sharpness in her eyes and an imperious line of her lips. 

‘It is poison’ the elderly man declared, eyes searching his lord’s face. ‘May I ask where you have procured it?’

Roose smiled, ’I’m not here to indulge your curiosity, Maester, but I will thank you for such a speedy response to our inquiry.’ 

‘Hypothetically, if a patient takes it, will they succumb to death?’ Sansa cooly wondered beside him, one perfect eyebrow arched in question. 

‘Not instantly, my lady’. The Maester considered his next words carefully and leaned forward in his seat. ‘If our hypothetical patient is exposed to it for a long period of time, it will slowly cause a weakening of the body to make it seem as if the cause of death is natural. But thankfully, there is an antidote, my lady. I-If that is what you are in search of?’ 

Roose leaned back in his chair and watched Sansa take over the conversation. She straightened up in her chair in response to the good news, ‘Yes. Please procure this antidote, Maester.’ 

‘As you wish, my lady’ The elderly man turned to Roose now, awaiting any further orders. He simply motioned towards the door, and watched the Maester exit the room. When the door clicked into place, Roose turned to Sansa leaning back into her chair; shedding off the skin of being Lady. 

‘He is poisoning Sweetrobin’ she finally breathed out.   
‘Yes, it seems that you were correct’   
He felt her soft hand wrap around the one he had carelessly placed on the table before them. The intensity of her gaze as well as the tight hold she had on him, made Roose soften his demeanor. ‘We have to help my cousin. Please.’ 

A fierceness enveloped him as he watched her seek his advice. ‘I will do what you wish, Sansa. Do you have something in mind?’ 

‘I do.’ She leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, her hot breath and the radiating heat of her body making him think of unchaste ideas, but he let her march up to the door with an excited smile on her face. ‘I will send for men to move Sweetrobin to our tower once the Northern lords arrive tonight, Lord Baelish will not suspect a thing, he will only think we are making room for the new arrivals’ 

Roose inclined his head in acquiescence, his little wolf curtsied and excused herself from his solar. It took him a moment to mull over what she had said. 

_our_ tower. 

*** 

Winter was harsh on them that evening as they welcomed the lords of the North. Roose had called for them to rally at Winterfell so that all would be ready to march on Stannis Baratheon’s forces. The wind licked and bit their cheeks as they stood side by side, nodding and curtsying to the men. He had advised Sansa against staying out so late with the weather being so harsh, but the determined look she gave him made the words die on his lips, and instead he had barked at her to wear thicker furs. 

She was different this time around the Northmen. Her eyes was direct and piercing— gone was the glassy and tear-filled gaze full of rage and accusation, Sansa knew that if she wanted to be queen over these men, she had to remind them what a true Stark was like. To his surprise, she had both hands steadied upon his arm. He noticed the lords eyeing the touch with interest, but he made no note of it. Sansa remained close to him even after they had retired to the warmth of the dining hall, she held her chin high with a glacier smile as Roose announced their betrothal. 

The hall had resounded with the merry approval of the men. Roose was wise and weathered enough to understand that they were not truly glad for his sake, but rather they were in dire need of a grand wedding feast, with food that was not rationed, an opportunity to whore around and tell bawdy bedding jokes— a battle in winter would break any man’s soul, Roose knew, and so he could not quite lie to himself when he thought of how beneficial it would be to have a wedding so soon. Or perhaps it was himself he was trying to please and sate. He glanced at the polished and prim Sansa beside him, wondering if anyone would believe him if he said that the little wolf had slipped into his bed last night sans-small clothes to bewitch him. 

She didn’t look back at him. Her eyes flitted to the dark corner where Littlefinger skulked in silence. Roose caught the imperceptible smile on Lord Baelish’s face, only reserved for Sansa. She responded with a curt nod of her head, then turned back to Roose. 

She must have noticed the cold demeanour he had slipped into, eyes escaping his in shyness. ‘Why are you looking at me as such?’ 

‘You havent smiled all night’ he found himself uttering like a fool, gaze taking in the surprise on her face. 

‘You want me to smile, my lord?’ 

He took his eyes off her, guiding them to their seats at the high table. ‘For the lords, you want them to love you. Not wonder what is their future lady plotting behind those eyes’ 

‘What do you think I am plotting?’ He felt her hand on his knees beneath the table. 

He glared at her, grabbing her small hand possessively. ‘Smile for me, then’ 

The side of her mouth upturned slightly into a regretful smile, one that made Roose blink hard at her. ‘I used to smile all the time at Kings Landing, but people never loved me there. Cersei sneered at them and they respected and feared her. It is how the Lannisters win, I have learned my lesson’ 

‘You’re in the North now, Sansa.’ He willed her to listen to his words. For a moment he felt like he was back in time, walking beside Robb Stark, seeing a flicker of potential in the young king, advising and seeking him on the right path, but Roose shook his head. Robb Stark never listened, he dragged the North with him to ruination; Roose will not dwell on it further. Sansa, beside him, with his grip tightening on her hand, making sure that she is alive and not a ghost with her brother, listened to him. ‘In the North, you will forget the Lannister’s touch on you. They can never have you again, they can never take away your love of songs and stories and knights. Smile, Sansa. Try to.’ 

For a long and impregnable silence, Sansa Stark stared at him with nothing to say. Her eyes did not well into tears, nor did she heed his words and smile. Instead she searched his face for something, and Roose had realised he was not in control of how he might seem to her. Sansa saw something in him, he realised, as her eyes softened into molten sapphires, burning for him. 

‘Kiss your betrothed, Lord Bolton’ her voice was low, soft, and inviting. He found himself pressing his lips against her in hunger, her mouth pliable and urging of him. The guests, Littlefinger, and Stannis evaporated from his mind, and Roose Bolton despised how the little wolf’s soft noises made his heart ache. 

_You are not her knight, you fool. You do not save the maiden. You are the killer of her kin, the villain in the song that can never have her, no matter how far he burns his way to hell with wanting her_. 

He kisses her harder.


	27. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger is cornered. Sansa senses a change in Roose.

Men filtered into the great hall as Sansa stood beside Theon in an alcove. She had her eyes pinned on Lord Baelish, sitting beside Ser Harrold and Lord Royce. The latter had nodded imperceptibly at Sansa, acknowledging her presence. 

‘Have the men brought my cousin?’ She murmured under her breath to her companion. 

Theon nodded, and motioned to the other end of the hall. ‘He will be here any moment now, Sansa. And—‘ he wrapped her hand around a vial. ‘I looked through Baelish’s belongings and found this’ 

‘Are there more in his chambers?’ 

‘Yes’ They both stared at each other. 

Clamor by the entrance drew Sansa’s gaze, her private guards were carrying in Robert Arryn to seat him on the high table beside Lord Bolton. Sansa quickly brought her gaze back to Littlefinger, he looked disquieted. _He knows_. The doors finally thudded shut once the hall was full, and Lord Bolton stood to address the uneasy men. 

‘My lords, generals, Sers’ He spoke clearly and unhurriedly, ‘We march on Stannis Baratheon’s host in a few days, you have all shown true loyalty to the North and house Bolton to come here so quickly and under such short notice.’ 

Sansa watched him still for a moment, letting his words sink in the men’s minds, allowing them a moment to gloat before he continued, ‘however, it seems that loyalty does not extend to all those in the hall tonight’ 

Unease stirred within the hall, and Sansa took this as the time to step up to the middle of the hall. ‘Lord Bolton’ Her voice was not shaky, ‘does not mean to offend, my lords. You have always been loyal, to the Stark name, and now to house Bolton. Your loyalty has never been questioned.’ She paused and looked into every lords’ eyes, ‘Even our friends from the Vale have shown loyalty to the North, and to their own lords. But both the North and the Vale have witnessed treachery, under the hands of one man.’ 

When she turned to stare at him, Lord Baelish seemed as if he was waiting for the announcement–– he only looked surprised at Sansa’s initiation of his demise. ‘Lord Baelish, you have plotted against House Stark from the beginning, tricked Eddard Stark and betrayed him to the Lannisters. His blood is on your hands. You have plotted to marry my aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn of the Eyrie, and pushed her through the Moon Door when she had found you out. Her blood is on your hands. And now, my lords’ She raised the hand holding the vial, her tone and entire demeanor calm as the Lords shifted uneasily, glaring at Baelish, ‘Lord Baelish, you have been poisoning my good cousin to rid yourself of any contenders to the Vale. And there are witnesses that have heard you plotting to kill my husband to be. For the following crimes, I ask the Warden of the North to sentence you to death’ 

‘Sansa!’ Littlefinger stood so quickly, his chair tipped back. The horror-struck expression on his face was quite enough to show the men the incrimination. 

‘It is _Lady Sansa_ ’ Lord Bolton shot back. 

Littlefinger moved around the table until he came before her, ‘My lady, I would not harm your family. I l-loved your mother, and I love––‘ 

She cut him off, turning to the lords. They seemed ready to accept her words, nodding their approval. ‘Eddard Stark had lost his head for trusting in this man. My aunt has died on his hands, and now my own cousin has consistently been poisoned. Look at him! A young boy unable to move or ride or speak. The Vale has suffered along with the North, our interests have always converged, we fight Stannis soon as one, and now we come together to stop this seed of lies and treason from festering more between us.’ 

As if on cue, Lord Royce stood to address Sansa. ‘My Lady Sansa, I have had my suspicions, but I knew not the extent of Baelish’s treachery. My house lays their loyalty at your feet, and to your husband-to-be’s cause. We unite with the North, to fight under the same banner!’ 

The room erupted in cheers and sounds of approval. Sansa turned to Lord Bolton, his face was impassive but she could see his eyes; his pale eyes transfixed on her. She felt the heat rushing up her neck but she did not back down. ‘I would ask Lord Bolton to send Lord Greyjoy along with another lord of his choosing to search Littlefinger’s chambers. They will find the poison there’ 

Roose Bolton was unmoving for a moment, trailing his gaze along the fiery support of the men in the hall before returning his gaze back to Sansa’s frame again. _I have rallied them, for you. The Stark and Bolton claim are one, for you. I have made them bloodthirsty for revenge and war, for you._ She stared back at him steadily. He nodded in reply, ‘Lord Karstark, will you do the honor?’ 

Karstark nodded his ascent, first to Sansa, and then to Lord Bolton. He disappeared out the hall, following Theon. 

Littlefinger moved towards Sansa, ‘I’ve loved you’ 

‘I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say any longer, my lord.’ She murmured dismissively and went to stand beside Lord Bolton to await the evidence. 

As soon as she came beside him, she felt his hand wrap tightly around hers. Sansa wanted to raise her eyebrows at him, he was lately quite different with her, and she could not pinpoint the reasons behind his feverishness towards her. She remembered their last kiss, after their betrothal announcement, and how fierce it had been. He had never kissed her like that before; it had always been indulgent, sloppy, slow; but suddenly that night in the great hall, he had kissed her so intently and ferociously. It made Sansa as dumbstruck and surprised as she was now. She didn’t press against his touch in return, but let her hand rest carefully in his.

When Theon and Karstark returned with a bag of vials, the lords stood in uproar yelling at Littlefinger. Lord Bolton silenced them with a swipe of his hands. 

Sansa turned to her cousin, kneeled on the floor before his chair and smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Tell the men what you have told Lord Royce and I this morning, Sweetrobin’ 

The servants helped the boy on his feet, pinning him up by the shoulders as his bloodshot eyes settled on Lord Bolton, his tall frame towering over Sansa. ‘I saw him. I saw Uncle Petyr fight with my mother, she was crying so horribly and I wanted to go to her. But Uncle Petyr was so angry and I was frightened’ 

‘He wont harm you, cousin’ she reassured the young boy, clutching his free hand in support. 

Sweetrobin nodded at Sansa and turned back to the men surrounding a caged Baelish. ‘He pushed her through the moon door, it only took a shove and her scream was all I could hear after. Uncle Petyr told me later, that Mother was very ill, that she would’ve hurt me if he hadn’t stop her, a-and I didnt believe him at first, but as I got ill I found he was kind to me and I never spoke of what I saw again.’ He stilled for a moment, eyes brimming with tears, ‘I was afraid he would push me too, Sansa’ 

‘Your mother’s death will not go unavenged, my lord’ Lord Bolton spoke over her head, she turned to look at him, he had an outstretched hand for her. 

She let him help her to her feet, and watched him motion for his guards to drag Baelish outside. It was a whirl of shouting and supplication from Littlefinger, and Sansa ignored him as they stripped him of his furs in the dark courtyard. She ignored him when Lord Royce snatched the mockingbird pin from his throat. She ignored him as he stared at her and began to beg. 

‘Sansa please. Dont do this’ He tried again as Lord Bolton unsheathed his longsword. Littlefinger took one glance at the shine of the weapon flicker back at him and grew feverish, ‘please. You need me, the woman knight will come for you, she will help you find your sister, I can help you two find Arya, I have connections’ 

‘Enough’ She shot back, he knew her sister would be a soft spot to her. But what lady knight? Sansa shouldn’t show any curiosity, ‘I dont need you. You are a traitor, because of you, my father has been taken away from me. I have lost everything.’ 

And with that she took a step back and nodded to Lord Bolton. As he passed by her side, he murmured in her ears. ‘Look away’ 

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Sansa wondered if Lord Bolton thought he could shield her from the horrors of life? _I have seen my father’s head roll before me_ , she wanted to say, but something about the soft determination in his eyes stopped her. What lay behind that skull of his, Sansa wondered. But she didn’t look away nevertheless. 

Lord Bolton’s men held Littlefinger in place, on his knees with his head propped on a stand. She could not look into his eyes, so she stared at his lips. When the longsword hacked through Littlefinger’s neck, the lips no longer shivered. 

*** 

In her chambers, Sansa sat by the fire staring at the flames. Lord Bolton sat behind her on the edge of her bed, he had brought her the wedding dress for tomorrow. He had this expectant look on his face as she fingered the pale grey lace of the hem, sleeves, and the low neckline of the rosy gown. ‘Stark and Bolton colors’ she murmured softly. 

He nodded. She could not unlock his strange gaze. ’You’ve shown the men today what a Stark and Bolton alliance could be like’ 

She had taken the dress from him and lay it softly across her bed, and moved to sit by the fire. She was not ignoring him, but she was terrified of the wedding tomorrow, and she did not know how to explain it. He accepted her silence and deposited himself on the bed behind her. ‘You will be the most important woman in the North tomorrow’ 

She looked behind her at him with wide eyes. ‘Do you think I am ready?’ 

‘Do you trust me?’ That question again, Sansa turned to him and looked him directly in the face. 

‘What do you think, my lord?’ she murmured instead. His eyes flashed, and Sansa felt him grab her aggressively and pull her between his legs on her knees. She let out a hiss when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and angled her face up towards him, ‘You never answer me’ 

‘I don’t know what you want me to say’ her voice came out ragged and breathless. 

When he did not speak, she could not look at him. She tried to get back inside but he stopped her with a grab of her wrists, the feel of his hand on her skin sent an ache pooling inside her. ‘Are you upset with me?’ 

It took her a moment to realize that he was concerned whether she was mourning Lord Baelish or not. ‘Ofcourse not! He was a murderer, a-and it was not the first time I see an execution. I’ve seen my father murdered before me, my lord, in case you have forgotten’ 

He was quiet again, Sansa stared at his chest, biting her lips in frustration. ‘Why wont you look at me?’ He put both hands, now, gently on her forearms. She couldn’t, she was suddenly sheepish and terrified of what awaited her tomorrow, her wedding day, the bedding; she was all alone and she did not understand what it would truly be like between husband and wife. 

‘Look at me’ he demanded.  
She didn’t move.  
‘I said, look at me’ he repeated, she knew his grey eyes would be blazing now.  
Still, She couldn’t move.  
He grabbed her chin, and brought her gaze up to his face level.  
‘I don’t want to look at you’ She said into his grey stormy eyes.  
‘You’re looking at me now’ he countered, ‘what do you see?’  
Sansa took a deep breath and focused. His eyes were the same moonlight grey as the first day she had met him, but there was something darker there; something that made the flush rise from her throat everytime she caught him staring at her lately . ‘You want me’  
‘Good girl’ he murmured, dangerously close. He tilted her head up, lips hovering over her tingling skin. ‘Since the first day I met you, till today when we stood before all these men, shouting their allegiance for Stark and Bolton. I wanted to take you right infront of everyone, right infront of that serpent; so that everyone would know you’re mine.’ 

She barely let out a breath now. One arm came around her waist, pulling her up to his lap. Her body ached terribly at his close proximity.  
‘I would’ve kissed every inch of you and made you mine. But you’re just a girl, afraid of what you really are; always striving to please.’ His head dipped down to her throat, Sansa felt the caress of his lips wash away all the horrible imprints of Kings Landing from on her, his rough beard tingling her skin; he planted a kiss on the bottom of her throat that turned her blood to smoke. 

She wanted to speak; to tell him to kiss her, to tell him to stop. ‘Tomorrow, yes?’ 

He pulled away. Sansa nodded sheepishly, both grateful and miffed that he had stopped. ‘Tomorrow, my lord’ He planted a kiss to the top of her head and helped her slip into bed under the furs. 

The promises from Lord Bolton’s caresses made Sansa shiver under her heap of furs.


	28. Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day. And night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK! I finally graduated, and it has been one hell of a week. But I’m back for the Boltons. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments x

No one mourned Littlefinger, the arrival of the wedding day washed away the treachery and blood of the previous evening. The men grew restless with the approaching battle, and the jubilation of a wedding had channelled their over-excitement to be sated until the war-cry rips through the winter sky. 

Sansa felt like she had sleep-walked to the godswood. In her chambers, her maids had helped her don the rosy frock, cooing and caressing the grey lace of the bodice. They braided the top of her head, and then brushed her hair until the curls shone brightly like glistening fire on her exposed shoulders. When Theon came to her with the Stark robes, Sansa had dimpled at him with tears welling in her eyes. 

He heaved the grey robe around her and coughed embarrassedly, ‘I know it must not be your wish for me to give your hand in marriage during the ceremony, I-I could ask Lord Arryn to do it if you wish it’

‘Theon’ she dismissed her maids and turned to him with a determined expression. ‘You are my brother, of my kin. I have forgiven you, forgive yourself please. I would want no one else to give me away’ 

She watched him pull up to his full height and extended his arm to her. Time passed her by as they walked to the godswood, and Sansa felt like she had been ripped out of her own body. _I’ve always wanted a grand wedding ceremony, I’ve wanted a magnificent feast and a knight for a husband_ , Sansa remembered how she had bored Jeyne and her mother with all the ideas she had for her own marriage. Things have changed, Sansa knew this. She knew this as she caught her first glimpse of Lord Bolton, standing beneath the weirwood tree, back straight and eyes trained on her approaching procession. He wore the expression of a solemn and determined warrior, his hands clasped together in the front ceremoniously, the moonlight mist eyes burning with fervor. Her eyes wandered over the slightly burnished leather doublet he wore, the crest of the upside down flayed man displayed proudly across his hard chest, and the intricately designed scabbard of his long sword resting against his thigh. Roose Bolton looked formidable. 

Lord Royce would lead the ceremony, and Sansa had agreed to this affably. He stood beside Lord Bolton, plump and red after a good wash, and shone with pride at having the honour of anointing this marriage. Theon clutched her hand and presented it to Lord Bolton, the latter slowly ripped his gaze from Sansa’s face to settle on her extended hand, reaching for him. Sansa watched him reach back for her until he had wrapped his large and callused hand around hers, and bringing her up to stand beside him. The feel of his firm arm pressed up against her made her feel so agitated and short of breath, but when his thumb flicked against the back of her hand, she looked up at Lord Bolton, to find him staring back at her. 

He was utterly unreadable. 

She parroted the ceremonial oaths, impressed that she spoke clearly and strongly without any apparent strain in her tone. Lord Bolton was as relaxed and cool as Sansa knew him to be, he nodded deftly at Lord Royce and slipped the Stark robes from off her shoulder, his fingers skidding longingly along her exposed skin, and finally placing his own House’s robes on her— making her Sansa Bolton, the lady of Winterfell and Dreadfort, the future Queen of the North. 

He leaned towards her to seal their union with a kiss. His lips pressed against hers softly, an impersonal type of kiss in reverence to the ceremony, the marriage pact, and the eyes of the weirwood tree. When he pulled away, Sansa saw the intensity in his eyes and it made her shiver all the way back to the great hall for the feast. 

She became more and more agitated and terrified of the remainder of the night, of whats to come when they were alone. She was twirled and twirled by all the lords and Sers in celebration of dancing with the new bride, when all she had wanted was for Lord Bolton to dance with her, to put his reassuring hands on her and ease her into his chest. But he sat in the high table, following her with his eyes until she felt her skin flush with expectant desire. Eventually, when he did manage to stalk towards his bride, it was to wrap his arm around her waist. She looked up at him in entreatment, and he responded with whispering in her ears, ‘It is time’ 

The men broke in cheerful and bawdy songs, urging their lord for a bedding ceremony, but thankfully, Sansa watched her lord husband shake his head curtly in response. There would be no bedding ceremony, that much made Sansa relax in his arms as they made their way to their bedchambers; her parents’ old chambers which she had been occupying. Her heartbeat thundered against her chest as her husband led her through the threshold of the door, and once he had let go of her, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room as he shut the door behind them, Sansa began feeling the terror creep in drastically. He had touched her before, had drove her to the ends of her pleasure, and she had more than gladly let him. Why, then, was she so terrified and on edge now? 

She stared at her covered feet, trying to will her breathing to even as Lord Bolton moved to stand before her. He could see the tense uncertainty on her face, Sansa knew it, but she hoped he would not mistake it for regret; that would surely sour their night. Tilting her head upwards, Sansa peered at her lord husband’s cool expression. 

His eyes, those moonlight mist eyes were smouldering with desire, urging the rampant need to pool to her stomach. Roose Bolton’s eyes had always affected her, since she had first been jostled out of her litter and was forced to curtsey to her new lord. Now, he was her husband, Sansa felt the icy terror around her heart soften at the blatant want in his misty depths. 

‘Are you scared?’ The restraint in his voice caused some part in her to jump in expectancy— waiting for him to grab her and make her his. 

She loosened out a shaky breath and fisted the sides of her frock to maintain her strength. ‘I don’t want to be’ 

‘Let me undress you’ his entire face was cool, amiable, but not disclosing anything else. If she hadnt spent so many months studying how his gaze shifted with his moods and desires, Sansa would’ve thought it was a mechanical and impersonal suggestion. But Roose knew how she relaxed into his grip once he pampered her, drawing her out of her fearful shell with soft yet urgent hands on her. She nodded her acquiescence and let him escort her to the dressing table’s stool. After seating her, Roose went on his knees before her and removed her footwear delicately, fingers grazing against the sensitive skin of her ankles. The memory of the first time he had undressed her flooded Sansa with reassurance, he knew how to be gentle, how to take care of her. Once his hands began a slow and indulgent ascend along her calves, up to the soft skin behind her knees, all while dragging her frock upwards, Sansa realised how different the two experiences were. She had been drunk and half-asleep when he had undressed her, her guardian then, Roose had kept his hands very impersonal. But now, his rough calluses felt greedy on her skin, dragging along her feverish skin until Sansa felt her knees give in and slowly open for him. 

Roose’s callused hands stopped in their assault on her legs. He smirked up at her from his perch between her legs and murmured, ‘eager now? But not yet, Sansa. Get up.’ 

The command in his voice was as if a thread had wrapped itself around her insides, and Roose had pulled on the string, to which Sansa obliged almost too heartily. She let him unhook the Bolton cloak from around him, watching him fold it neatly and agonisingly slow by the dressing table. 

She started to stand on her toes to pull him into a kiss but he braced her in place. 'No, Sansa' he was amused, 'As impatient and magnificently wild as our previous encounters were, you must learn to take it smoothly' 

Sansa nodded in understanding, focusing on his every word. He sighed with content, eyes melting into molten gray, putting her at ease. 

Roose slowly unbraided her hair, raking his hands through the sun kissed curls to shake it. He grunted his approval and continued, while keeping his gaze locked on hers. Sansa felt each movement excruciatingly in every fiber of her being. He smiled almost wolfishly at her Bolton frock. 

'Turn around' he demanded. And she did. He delicately unlaced her, his fingers lingering over her tingling warm flesh. Sansa felt a shiver seize her body at his languorous touch. He turned her around to face him, and pulled down her frock over her shoulders, slowly unveiling her breasts, which his hands ghosted over. Sansa breathed shallowly, eyes heavy as she looked up at the tight control Roose had wrapped around himself. 'You're beautiful like this; unguarded and so...' He cupped her breast, spurring Sansa to let loose an almost animal sound at the back of her throat, she could feel the slickness at the apex of her thighs, 'responsive' 

She was intrigued and terribly aroused at the way he looked at her and touched her. She removed her legs from the frock, leaving it pooled on the ground. Roose pressed himself against her as his arms went around Sansa’s shivering waist, she realised she was utterly bare before him. Her red-flushed body plush against the leather doublet he wore. She was shaking, at the vulnerability of her nakedness, and at the feel of his twitching cock against her. 

Roose then took a step back, his gray eyes glittering under the light as he admired her body. Sansa felt confident, as if she wanted to sacrifice her body in order to simply have Roose stare at her so appreciatively until the seven hells froze. 

He hummed indulgently in the quiet room, standing straight, his eyes slowly smoldering down at her. Sansa did not know what to do next, utterly transfixed by the domineering figure before her, feeling her disadvantage by how _fully_ clothed he was. To her surprise he pushed her towards the bed, causing Sansa to bump her legs against the bed frame and landing on her back on the bed. Sansa stared up at him with her burning gaze in anticipation. 'Almost there' he chided the impatience clearly shown by her pert nipples and rushed breathing. Sansa watched Roose quickly working to unlace his breeches, and then slowly stroke his already erect shaft once, twice, before turning back his heated gaze to Sansa. 

She barely had the time to register that she was trapped between his arms, his chiseled face an inch away from hers, the leathers of his attire chafing against her nakedness. She wished she could feel his cock straining against the apex of her thighs every night.

'I wanted you from the very start' Roose murmured, his tongue lapping around her nipple, causing Sansa to arch her back to receive more of his attentions. She thought she could simply come by the way he flicked his tongue at her sensitive nipples. 'I was such a fool to kiss you and leave you untouched for that first time. I should've went back to your room and fucked you senseless' Sansa wailed. 

His hand replaced his tongue, toying with her breast as his hot mouth sank lower and lower until he paused over her pelvis.

‘Roose' She whimpered, writhing with abandon. The noise she made seemed to have pulled him out of his thoughts and turned his eyes wild like a mad-man. He slipped off the bed and sank to his knees, pulling Sansa to the edge as if she was a bag of feathers until her legs dangled in the air. Roose propped one knee over his shoulder and pushed Sansa to her back, but not before saying, 'This will make you feel more at ease, my lady' 

She almost stopped him, feeling mounting embarrassment at being angled so at her husband. It would ease her, he had promised, and she needed more than anything to find pleasure in Roose’s bed, and try to please him. But it was the predatory way he was looking at her that made her body shake. 

As if sensing her mounting hesitation, Roose placed a delicate hand on her hip, and without breaking eye contact, dipped his head between her thighs, pressing soft, chaste kisses along her inner thighs causing Sansa to convulse periodically.

Her hands fisted the furs as his tongue lapped at the wetness in her core. She became very vocal all of a sudden, all for a flick of a tongue there, sucking her sensitive nub. 

‘Relax, Sansa’ He ordered her, voice amused and stern at the same time. She helplessly stared at the ceiling, trying to croak out something to signal that she was still alive and would listen to his instructions. Roose hummed against her inner thighs, ‘I will try to prepare you, to make you ready for me. Do you trust me?’ 

She met his gaze and hoped he would understand that she did. He held her gaze as he slipped one finger into her wet heat, pumping into her until she rolled her eyes backwards, arching her back and writhing for release. 

Roose began to taunt her, slowing the rate of his fingers until Sansa screamed his name as she felt herself clenching around his fingers, almost there and she was wailing, tears of pleasure stinging her eyes. 'Sansa, look at me' 

Her hands were wobbling, but she managed to position herself up on one elbow to stare down at Roose. He was smiling villainously up at her like he had just feasted on her innocence and was enjoying every minute of it, his stubble glistening with her wetness. His beautiful eyes were her undoing; she came wailing his name and spilling around his fingers. Roose extracted his fingers slowly, Sansa could hear it pull away from the massive wetness between her thighs, and then he licked her clean. She almost fainted at the feel of his stubble harshly rubbing against her inner thighs. 

He let her catch her breathing for a moment, lying beside her with one hand splayed across her trembling stomach. Glancing up at him, Sansa could see the unsated desire in his eyes, his gaze pouring over her in violent hunger. She held his hand and guided it to the spot between her legs; soaking and ready for him once more. Roose grabbed a fistful of her hair, hiding his face in it as he drove right into her in one endless motion. He stilled, letting the feel of him settle within her. Sansa felt the uncomfortable tightness slowly subside, motioning for him to move by kissing his jaw. 

'Roose' she panted in his ear, her hips starting to move, quite sluggishly with inexperienced rhythm with his thrusts. Their hips slammed against each other, the pain heightening the experience more. 

'Lovely Sansa' he murmured between grunts, 'I hope the gods keep you safe for me tomorrow, only for me.' 

They came then, Sansa muffling her unbecoming shrillness into his shoulders, nails digging into flesh, and limbs tightening around each other. 

Roose turned to sleep on his back, pulling Sansa to rest her sated and flushed body ontop of him. Sansa lay there in silence feeling him play with her soft curls. But before she succumbed to the exhaustive sleep tugging at her, Sansa managed to whimper, ‘Please do not die’ 

If he heard her, he did not reply again. But she felt his fist tighten around her hair.


	29. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Roose's wedding night is interrupted with the coming Baratheon horde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back with another one, and I missed you all x

Roose woke Sansa when he tried to move from underneath her. She blinked against the overall darkness of the room, realizing that the morning has not been upon them yet. Clutching his retreating forearm, Sansa stared up at him through bleary eyes. ‘Where are you going?’ 

He stilled in the darkness, and then she felt him crawl back next to her again, ‘We need to prepare for the attack’ 

Sansa did not know where the fierceness stemmed from, perhaps the wanton events of their wedding consummation had spurred her to speak, but she found herself leaning up on her elbow, to stare down her husband. ‘You cant leave. You cant leave _me_ now’ 

He lay on his back, meeting her gaze steadily. Arms crossed behind his head, cushioning him. He was still fully dressed, and Sansa remained bare before him, feeling the heat envelop her at how at ease and unbothered he was. She let her eyes trail over him, suddenly miffed that she had been the vulnerable one all night. ‘Stay for a little while more’ she murmured, hand splayed across his hard chest, ‘please’ 

Roose placed his hand over hers, slowly pushing it off him. Sansa frowned at the embarrassment of his rejection, but realized he was pushing her back so that he would lie on his side and face her. Her need for him heightened as he pressed her flush against him, nuzzling his nose against her throat. Sansa made a feral noise at the back of her throat at his proximity. 

‘Will my wife miss me when I leave?’ He growled around the sensitive skin beneath her ear. 

Sansa grabbed his chin and tried to bring his head upwards so she could kiss him. As soon as her lips breathed against his own, Roose turned his face away from her. Before she could become wounded, Roose startled her by wrapping his fist around her hair and pulled her head back, arching her neck up for him. He nipped quite aggressively her exposed neck and shoulder, the image of her shoulders littered with bright red marks making her wetter at the suggestion of how he was marking her as his, fueled Sansa’s eagerness for him. Sansa trembled as she heard the rustle of him unlacing his breeches. ‘Show me how much my good little wife will miss me’, he wound her thigh around his waist and opened her up for him. 

Sansa was unhinged by the playful tone of Roose, so unlike the previous encounters of theirs. ‘I-I will miss you—‘   
‘—then show me’ he smirked down at her in amusement, but his dilated eyes were dark and tensed— Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She was at a loss of what to do, unsure what is he wanted her to _do_ exactly. 

When she stared up at him in clouded desire and confusion, Roose finally took pity upon her and rubbed his now free erection against the curve of her mound suggestively. Sansa moaned at the contact and felt her eyes shut painfully against the throbbing between her thighs.   
Hesitantly she reached for his hardness, lining him up to her entrance till she was satisfied enough to sink herself onto him. 

‘Move, Sansa’ he ordered throatily against the fluttering vein in her neck, she keened when he stilled, finally filling her to the hilt. She retraced the way her hips had rolled against him last night, and slowly began to shift gently. Soft moans slipped from her throat as she rode him— spurred and excited by Roose’s grunts. 

They were both still groggy from the lack of sleep, and so they took their time with their lovemaking. Roose gave Sansa free rein, to take her pleasure as she wished, and to show him how she felt about him going off to battle. After he had spilled his seed in her, Sansa smiled inwardly at how her lord husband had come undone by her ministrations. He kissed her deeply and sloppily, without pausing for breath until Sansa pulled away. 

‘You must go now?’ She asked, hoping he would say no, hoping he would choose to remain with her. What if she becomes with child and Roose falls in battle? His seed slick between her thighs, Sansa began to wonder what it would be like to have children, how Roose would be a father to them; would he treat them in the same manner Ramsay was dealt with? 

Roose laced his breeches back on and sat on the edge of bed. ‘You will be lady of this stronghold, many will depend on you. _I_ will depend on you to take care of our interests here’ 

_Our interests_ , it makes Sansa shiver at his choice of wording. She crawls to where he sits and pulls him towards her until their eyes meet. Tully blue on his glimmering gray. ‘Come back victorious, my lord’ 

She hoped he would not notice the strange tremor in her voice. He killed her family, stole their crown and land, and now he has her. She should be happy he might fall in battle, but she is far from it. She had chosen her fate; concocted it for her own benefit and desire. She desired the rule in the North, she desired a crown, she desired taking the Bolton name, and most importantly, she desired Roose Bolton. Sansa did not want him to die, not even close. 

Roose smirked knowingly, ‘I intend to, my lady Bolton’ 

***  
It was far too easy, Roose realized. His forces had used the topography of a freezing Winterfell to their outmost benefit. The snow was thick and relentless upon Stannis’ forces, the troops hungry and slowly questioning whether fighting a war for a losing king was any good. All Roose had to do was signal his men to attack, and the enemy line broke. 

The men who chose to stand and fight were easy cut down by the cavalry. Those who ran like cowards to the safety of the forest would eventually die of starvation and cold, if not, Roose’s men would find them one by one. He had glimpsed Stannis fighting vigorously amongst his ranks, but as the battle progressed and men began to slink into the forest, Roose could no longer see the pretend-king. He chased Stannis through the forest once victory was guaranteed, and what he found surprised him more than ever. 

It was the woman-knight from Tarth, the one the Kingslayer had foolishly sacrificed his life to save from the bear pit. She had been in a size too small, tattered pink dress the last time Roose had seen her, but now she looked almost regal and distinguished in her battle livery; a sword in her sure palm as she pointed it at Stannis. The Baratheon king sagged against the tree trunk, blood soaking the ice beneath him as his wound deepened from trying to move away from the Tarth woman. 

‘Lady Tarth’ Roose slowly made his way to her circle of vicinity, he was not sure she would be alone, and his men would follow him shortly. ‘I would thank you for delivering us the pretender-king’ 

The woman-knight turned violently towards his voice, only to have a crazed expression on her face as she looked back to make sure her prisoner would not escape her. ‘I have a duty, Lord Bolton, Stannis Baratheon murdered my king––‘

‘––a pretend king, as well’ drawled Roose, if he could keep the knight busy enough, his men would be upon them. He sheathed his sword and clasped his hands infront of him in a manner expressing his willingness to listen. ‘You were Renly’s hand, my lady, and you’re honor bound to avenge your lord’ 

‘My brother had no claim to the throne––‘ Stannis gurgled out in his freezing and bleeding state only to be silenced by Brienne’s shout of silence. He glared at her and ground his teeth in simmering rage. 

Brienne of Tarth momentarily lowers her sword, eyes flitting between her prisoner and Roose. ‘You would let me fulfill my oath, my lord?’ 

Roose smiled. ‘I would ascertain the traitor would be put to trial and sentenced to death’ He caught Stannis blanch at his words. 

She seems unconvinced. ‘I must end his life _now_. Renly’s soul will not rest until I avenge him’ 

‘ _Lord_ Renly must’ve found your loyalty endearing, my lady’ he could hear his men shuffling around them now, ‘and your loyalty is tied to the Lannisters now if I am correct. Come, my lady, you are far from home and I would make sure you return back safely to the Kingslayer in one piece’ 

The brilliant blue eyes, but they are not his wife’s and so they do not move Roose, flash dangerously. ‘I am my own woman. I am under oath to both avenge King Renly _and_ find the daughters of Catelyn Stark’ She narrowed her gaze at him, ‘one of which resides in your castle, am I correct?’ 

The thought of this knight spiriting Sansa far away from him filled Roose with an unbearable sense of violent possessiveness that almost spurred him to run his sword through the presumptuous knight. But he noticed one of his men sneaking up behind Brienne, and let the man pummel her to the ice bed. 

‘You’ll see her soon enough, my lady’ he let his bored gaze sweep over the struggling Brienne and then settled on the invalid Baratheon. He sat on his haunches before him and smiled wickedly, Stannis’ form visibly shaking in expectation. ‘How kings are humbled so quickly in Westeros always amuses me’ 

‘You ran your blade through one king before’ Stannis spits out bitingly, clutching his thigh painfully as Roose stared him down. 

Roose rested his hand on Stannis’ chin, bringing it up to stare the pretender-king straight in the face. ’And I intend to do it again, your highness’


	30. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose returns from battle for his wife. A balance of power tips in another direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! Thanks to Nanowrimo. Will hopefully be posting everyday. Anyone else doing Nanowrimo this year? Hit me up! 
> 
> This is mostly smut, but with plot! or more like character development for Sansa, and Roose being utterly dragged by his prick lmfao.

A battle on the next morning of her wedding night seemed almost a dark omen— such things would’ve troubled another Sansa in another lifetime. Instead Sansa Bolton stood at Winterfell’s parapets waiting for any news of Roose. She had watched the battle turn to his favor, their forces had been well fed, well trained, and the previous night's wedding feast had emboldened them to fight. Stannis' men, she noted, were defeated well before their battle cry's signal. Her eyes sought Roose at every moment of the fight, and it amazed her how much of a natural fighter he was. _He was your brother's right hand man, he led all Robb's battles to victory_ , a voice reminded her. The Lord of the Dreadfort moved with calculated agility, struck fast and hard blows to his enemies, and looked far too at ease with his slaughter of the Baratheon forces.

Sansa was not at ease. She was terrified for his safety, and this feeling mystified her still. She needed him safe, and by her side, and in her bed. Her growing and overwhelming affection towards him meant no sense; especially since she was finding it difficult to fully trust him. Would he comply with her plans of becoming king and queen of the North? Would she trust him to guarantee the safety of her brothers? To not see them as contenders to the throne or a threat to his legitimacy in the North? Sansa did not have an answer to that. Yet she prayed for his safety when he marched into the thickets of the woods behind the Baratheon's retreating forces.

When the battle had ended and their forces returned victorious to Winterfell's walls, Sansa noticed Roose's victorious frame, and trailing behind him were his captives. Sansa gaped at the large and imposing woman being dragged behind him, all muddied with her mouth full of blood, trailing from her nose. Letting her gaze trail further down the large woman's frame, Sansa caught glimpse of her sword's empty scabbard. The lady knight. _The lady knight will come to you and she will help you find your sister_ , Littlefinger had told her. Had he spoken the truth? Did he or this woman know where Arya was?

Sansa rushed through the clearing to meet her husband, unable to comprehend that she had murdered the man who might have known where her lost sister is.

She didn't realise until she slammed herself into Roose's chest, his face incredulous at her welcoming of his return, arms latching onto her feverishly in return, that she had been terrified for him. Something akin to a sob ripped through her and settled into the warmth of his chest, Roose stilled against her but kept his arms locked around her.

'It's alright, Sansa' he murmured against her temple. She nodded vigorously and peeked up at him through tear stained eyes.

'Come inside' she whispered, he returned her invitation with a distracted smile.

***

They didn't manage to make it to their sleeping chambers. Roose snuck Sansa into the empty War Council meeting room in a frenzied hurry that had her giggling. They slammed together against the large wooden door, with Roose's predatory expression. ‘Am I amusing you, Sansa?’ he asked, voice thick and velvety as her name rolled off his tongue. 

‘No, my lord’  
He kissed her right cheek. ‘Why are you laughing?’  
‘I don’t laugh’ she mused, as he planted another kiss on her left cheek. She didn’t realise how much she appreciated a playful Roose Bolton.  
‘Yes, you don’t laugh.’ He wrapped her flaming red hair around his fist, arching her head back until her throat was exposed to him, ‘at least not around me.’

The words made Sansa pause. Gone was the playful smirk, and in its place was an almost rabid urgency in Roose’s gaze-- causing Sansa’s breath to catch in her throat. Her body had morphed into a warm pulp that Roose was clutching at, stoking her strange boundless desire for this man before her. _my family’s murderer, my traitorous husband._. ‘If you stay with me, I will make you laugh, Sansa’ 

She blinked back at the softness of his tone, at a loss for his words. 

‘I’m not leaving--’  
‘--No’ his mouth descended to her neck, teeth skidding over the sensitive pulse there; almost threateningly, almost possessively. ‘No false promises, Sansa?’ 

He did not believe her. 

‘I’m not--’ she tried to speak again, to reassure him, to make him understand, but he silenced her by pulling her into a deep and prolonged kiss. The feel of his mouth’s aggressive onslaught made Sansa’s stomach flip in expectation. She audibly keened when he pushed her away from the door and into his chest, his large palms running up and down her body maddeningly. Roose left a hot, wet trail along her jaw, muttering inaudibly against her skin. She didn't understand what was the matter with him; did blood lust after a battle render a man so overcome by his own desires? Did something happen on the battlefield? But when he roughly palmed her breast through the thin material of her frock, all worries instantaneously escaped Sansa’s mind and all she could think of is how she wanted to spend forever kissing him. She was utterly lost in the way his broad shoulders engulfed her into his arms, how she was unable to catch her breath running her hands across his thick arms, how she _pushed back_ against his overpowering frame, that she didn't realise Roose had turned them around and she had bumped into the map table. Roose’s feverish gray eyes were fathomless; it terrified her-- she had to convince herself that how he was looking at her was supposed to terrify any proper lady, that the said proper lady shouldnt be squeezing her thighs together against the slickness gathering at her core. 

‘Get up’ he said clipplingly, ‘sit’ 

She did as he said, and watched him catch his breath. Her eyes slid down further, and felt herself swallow in unexplained trepidation at his manhood tenting his breeches. 

She found her voice and spoke -- distracting herself, distracting him, trying to _breathe_ regularly from how much she _needed_ him. ‘I was worried about you’ 

‘Well’ he said, ‘I’m alive.’ He had one hand loosely around her neck -- _if he squeezed, he’ll have my life_ \-- and pulled her in for one soft, featherlike brush of his lips against her wet, inflamed mouth, ‘ _gods,_ Sansa’ 

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. He pulled back to give her one final simmering look, his hands moving to untie the front laces of her frock, and she sat still until Roose pushed the sleeves off her shoulders to expose her breasts. He moved agonisingly slow from there–– palming her left breast as he unlaced his breeches, Sansa leaned further into his palms, wanting him to feel her everywhere. Without waiting for his instruction once he had freed his hardened manhood, Sansa bunched up her frock around her thighs and wrapped one leg around Roose’s backside, pulling him close until she felt his member slide against the wetness of her small-clothes. 

‘Lean back, Sansa’ he ordered gruffly, yet he almost hesitated–– his eyes flashing with a strange emotion–– and captured her mouth in an open mouthed kiss that seem to go on and on and on until Sansa realised that he had pushed her until she lay on the table, and her small clothes were around one desolate ankle. ‘Roose…’ she murmured against his mouth, and he replied by thrusting gently into her until she felt filled by him. 

It was not like the hurried and erratic thrusts of their consummation and wedding morning, Roose’s thrusts went exceptionally slow and languid, pulling out of Sansa’s wetness and filling her up again as the obscene sound of their slickness filled Sansa’s ears; she felt mortified that anyone could walk in on them, but Roose made her feel so good she could not help but throw her head back and grab her breasts in a tense build-up of their amorous love-making. 

Roose groaned and muttered incoherently as they brought them both to their peak, stretching out over Sansa’s red flushed and heaving body beneath him. He littered kisses along her the softness of her belly, amazed at how Sansa’s after-shocks of her orgasm kept her shivering. Sansa felt spent, degenerate, and decadently filthy as she slowly reoriented herself to the wanton splay of her body on the map table, Roose staring at her from the perch between her shaky thighs, half-disrobed and naked. ‘Sansa, I––’ 

Somehow, for some reason, she was too overwhelmed by warring emotions to listen to whatever heart-felt confession he was about to enrapture her with. She was terrified of the feverish feelings she was developing towards Roose; she felt safe around him, she owned him her education, her slow rebuilding of her confidence and strength, an almost warm affinity to his comforting presence during her nightmares; but could she––? _No, Sansa, don’t think of the word. Anything but that, no!_ She placed a shaky hand to his chest and smiled prettily up at him, ‘My lord, we should celebrate your victory’ 

A shadow flitted through his gaze, he masked his face into one of sarcastic amusement, but Sansa had been around him long enough to discern the slightest shifts of his mood. He was no longer as mystifying to her as before. ‘I thought I had already feasted, my lady?’ 

The subtle subtext in his words had the surprising effect of making her blush. Sansa shut her eyes against the insanity of that; she was half-dressed, splayed out very unlady-like, with Roose’s softening manhood still buried in her; and yet, one filthy innuendo from him and she was already blushing. ‘With your men, my lord, with your men and lords and Stannis Baratheon’ 

‘And Brienne of Tarth’ He pulled himself out of her, and a mixture of his seed and her cum slid along the inside of Sansa’s side. He watched Sansa arrange her small-clothes into place, and with hawk-like precision followed the trail of her fingers as she tied the front of her frock back into place. 

When she was done, Sansa stared at a spot below his thin lips, now red and glistening from their kissing; unable to meet his gaze. ‘She knows where Arya is’  
‘Does she?’ 

‘Don’t execute her with Stannis’ she murmured, ‘please’  
Roose held up her chin to stare straight into her eyes. Tully blue on his stormy grey. ‘You’ve decided Stannis’ fate already, my lady?’  
She pursed her lips together and realised that yes, she had decided. And she was deciding for Brienne of Tarth too. She was deciding for Arya’s faith, for Bran and Rickon, and for House Stark. 

‘I would like a private audience with Brienne’  
‘Sansa––’  
‘––I am _having_ a private audience with Brienne of Tarth before you address the men, my lord’ She met his gaze steadily, awaiting his reaction. 

He stood stock still for a moment, his face clouded with rioting emotions. Sansa felt him brush away a stray curl from her face almost affectionately that it gutted her, and said, ‘As you wish, lady Sansa’


	31. Guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa offers Brienne a second chance. Roose is more guarded than ever, Sansa thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo thickening plot.

_Arya Arya Arya, are you truly alive?_

Sansa’s heart beat increased with every step she took towards the kennels where Brienne of Tarth was held captive. Once she entered the humid, putrid place, she glanced around the empty cells half-expecting to see Stannis stowed into one of them. But he was a lord, a pretender king yes, but still, he was lord of Dragonstone and brother to the late king. Sansa knew that even Roose Bolton had some semblance of respect for titles. 

Lady Brienne, on the other hand, was not awarded such respect. 

In the cellar, the lady knight shrieked once she saw Sansa step forth into her cell. ‘Lady Sansa!’ her sudden charge towards Sansa moved her assigned guard to push her aggressively to her knees. ‘Be quiet’ He roughly manhandled her far away from Sansa. 

Sansa turned to the guard with narrowed eyes, ‘please leave us’   
The man hesitated for a moment, then decided to speak. ‘My lady, I was not informed of any visits to this woman. Perhaps it's best to stay––’ 

‘Thank you, Ser, I would much prefer an audience with the lady by ourselves’ her tone was controlled, clipped and authoritative. She gave the man a cold smile worthy of Roose’s own glacial taunting smile, and the man blinked back at her several times before removing himself from the cell. 

Once the door had clicked into place the rabid look in lady Brienne’s eyes returned, she slurred her sentences hurriedly before Sansa could get one word in. ‘Lady Sansa, I am bound by oath to both Lady Catelyn Stark, and Ser Jaime Lannister, to return the young Stark girls home safely.’ 

Sansa almost flinched at hearing the Lannister name, it made her involuntarily glance around the room as if to mask the rising panic that name induced within her, ‘I believe this is Winterfell, Lady Brienne, my home, is it not?’ 

‘Home is where your family is, my lady’ she shook against her chains, trying to get to her feet, ‘Riverrun has your uncles. I could take you safely there’ 

‘Oh’ Sansa raised an eyebrow at the lady knight. ‘You would not take me to Ser Jaime? To the Lannisters, whom you are oath bound to?’ 

‘My lady, Ser Jaime is also oath bound to your late lady mother. He only wants your safe return––’ 

Sansa’s temper flared, impatient at this woman’s frank and untarnished belief in oaths and promises. ‘Lady Brienne’ she huffed clippingly, ‘your Ser Jaime is currently marching on Riverrun. My Uncle Brynden is a traitor to the crown, and my Uncle Edmure is a puppet to the crown, is that where you see fit to send me? Is that where _home_ is? Is that where I am most safe as Catelyn Stark would have liked?’ 

‘I––’ the older woman’s large blue sapphire like eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But––’ 

‘Allow me to free you of your oath, my lady. I can go nowhere but where I am now. As for the Stark girls, you only see one before you’ Sansa extended her hands by her side in demonstration, ‘the last remaining Stark heir in Westeros’ 

‘But your sister’ the woman tried again.   
‘Is lost, or dead. Perhaps neither, but I have no information on where she is’

‘But Lord Baelish knows’ as soon as the lady knight uttered these words, Sansa shut her eyes in soul-crushing regret. _He was telling the truth. The one time he was telling the truth, and I did not believe him._ ‘I apprehended him in a tavern on my journey, I informed him of my oath hoping he would point me out to the location of either Stark girls.’ 

‘Lord Baelish is dead’ Sansa said flatly, eyes opening to hold Brienne’s searching gaze. ‘He was executed in these very same halls not long ago’ 

‘But...He knew where Arya was. He said he would help me rescue you from the Boltons, and then we would focus our efforts on finding Arya’ Brienne stared at Sansa in shock. 

Lord Baelish would help get Sansa from the Bolton’s grasp, Sansa had no qualms with believing that. But it was not to help her, it was not to find another Stark heir–– another heir that would ruin his chances of sinking his talons into Sansa. Brienne of Tarth was sweet, innocent, and overly-trusting, and yet, Sansa did not wish her to be tarnished; not in the way Sansa had experienced. 

‘He is dead, and he was a liar and a murderer. Just like Ser Jaime, and his vipers of a family.’ Sansa sat on the soles of her feet in front of Brienne. ‘I am lady of Winterfell now–’   
‘––You’re married to a monster, my lady, he murdered your family’   
‘Yes yes, I know’ Sansa said simply, not wanting to explain herself to Brienne, not wanting to explain herself to anyone now. ‘And yet, I am free. To come and go as I please, to meet with my husband’s captives.’ 

She stared pointedly at Brienne, waiting for the large woman to follow where this was going. ‘You are free to go, Brienne of Tarth. You may choose to return to Ser Jaime, but the consequences of that unfortunate decision will only befall you.’ She noticed the lady knight stare at her shackled hands in anguished despair, but Sansa continued, ‘or you may choose to remain here, by my side if you wish it, and you could bind yourself to me, and do my bidding as my own knight’ 

Brienne’s bloodshot eyes widened, ‘As y-your knight, my lady?’ 

She nodded. ‘I have a use for you. If that is your decision?’ 

Sansa patted Lady Brienne’s shaking frame from her stifled sobbing in comfort–– she knew what disillusionment with someone one once cared for looked like; someone one trusted who had turned their back on you. Sansa’s heart felt for her, but she leaned forward and murmured, ‘Never trust the Lannisters, my lady. I too have felt the poison of their sweet words and oaths’

As Brienne regained her composure and nodded deftly to Sansa, her eyes shone brightly with welling tears but Sansa could see the renewed sense of duty and obligation. Perhaps she could trust the lady night with the mission ahead of her. She called for the guard and ordered him to untie Brienne of Tarth. 

‘You are of my household, lady’ she helped the large framed woman to her feet, ‘you’re a knight of Winterfell’ 

‘What of Lord Bolton? Or that traitor Stannis?’ 

Sansa dismissed the woman’s worries, casting her gaze upwards as if it could penetrate the walls and find Roose Bolton she said, ‘that remains to be seen, my lady’ 

*** 

One, two, and then three days passed with Stannis Baratheon under lock and key in Roose’s Winterfell–– untouched, not spoken to, and hidden from all. Through the day, Sansa and Roose moved to station the men who had come to fight in different villages; both to protect the villages and rebuild them after the ravaging clutches of war in the North had abetted. At night, the lord and lady of Winterfell presided over celebratory feasts with bawdy music, loud singing, and never-ending merriment. 

And yet, Sansa felt Roose Bolton had detached himself from it all. 

On the first night after she had freed the Tarth woman, she expected Roose to lose his temper; to fling things around the room for disobeying him, to yell at her that she is meddling in uncharted political grounds. But he stood in the middle of their bedroom, with a pale face and heavy-lidded eyes. He was still in his war garb, sweaty, muddy, and bloody, and he was staring at Sansa with a strange longing in his eyes. 

‘Where is Stannis?’ she tried to speak, to break the palpable desire between them.   
Roose unties his belt, folding it along with his sword scabbard on the stool in front on their bed before looking back at her. ‘In chambers of his own, with guards.’   
Because it put her on edge, seeing him so still and quiet, with his hands loose beside his burly, thick frame, staring at her contemplatively, Sansa couldn't stop the words from stumbling out of her mouth, ‘I’m not going to free him’ 

One side of his mouth turned up in amusement. She let out a shaky breath. ‘Come here, Sansa’ 

She went to him, and he leaned down to press a kiss to both her cheeks, inflaming her skin where his lips brushed her. ‘Stannis can bugger off for one night, the whole North can bugger off’ 

She blinked at the words he left unsaid. ‘I’ll send for your bath’ 

He didn’t make it to his bath. As Sansa sat on the edge of their bed, watching Roose undress and make for the bath. Lord Bolton threw one glance at her, and stilled in his nakedness, eyes roaming over Sansa’s reddened cheeks, and shying away gaze. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she found herself thrown back onto their bed, with Roose between her thighs groaning painfully as they thrust against each other aggressively. Sansa rubbed his cheeks through it all, tears stinging her eyes as she was overwhelmed with desire and affection. He wouldn’t kiss her on the mouth again. 

_Oh Roose, let me in._

The days after, he was more cryptic. He left their bed in the middle of the night, Sansa felt the absence of his warmth from where he lay pressed against her back at night. She would watch him through half-lidded eyes as he marched up and down their bed chambers in contemplative silence. At first, she did not disturb him. She felt that he had distanced himself away in a strange way; he would seek her bed, groaning and moaning her name and obscene expletives of how much he wanted her, _needed_ her, hedging her to be as vocal as he was, but once he was done he would rub his nose against her throat and pulled away from her. During the day he would be even more cryptic, following her with his sharp, penetrative gaze until Sansa felt the thrumming between her thigh intensify at the look on his face. As they sat in audiences with their lords and tenants, Roose would have his palm on her knee under the table, and as the meeting progressed it would move further up along her thigh until Sansa made a noise in the back of her throat. It would be the queue to disband the meeting, and Roose Bolton would drag his wife back to their bed chambers to satisfy the itch she had. 

After one of their mid-day tumbles in their bed-chambers, Sansa was sat naked between their sheets, staring up at Roose getting dressed to head out to another round along the strong-hold. As if feeling her burning gaze on his back, he turned to look at her–– one eyebrow raised in question. 

_why won’t you speak to me?_ , she wanted to ask. But instead, she wrapped a loose sheet around her nakedness and sat on her knees at the edge of the bed, Roose move to circle her waist with his arm, pulling her against his chest. ‘What will you do with Stannis?’ 

He stared at Sansa for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the flickering sunlight outside their window. ‘I’m not sure, Sansa’ 

‘Have you spoken to him?’ she parried.   
He nodded. ‘Yes’   
‘And?’ She searched his gaze with a worried expression, ‘Roose––’   
Roose tightened his grasp on Sansa and melded her soft body against the overtly tense frame of his. ‘Perhaps you should come speak with him’ 

Roose had her head buried against his chest, she was unable to look up at him. She stared at the edge of their unmade bed, shivering from the clinical tone he began to take on after their love-making. ‘Has he asked for me?’ 

‘Not in many words. But it concerns your bastard–– brother Jon Snow.’ Sansa felt a shrillness take hold of her. Could she speak? Could she ask? 

‘Is he––?’   
He pulled her away hastily to look her in the face, and she saw the warring need to reassure him envelope his expression, ‘No, Sansa, Commander Snow is alive. But there is trouble at the wall.’ 

She moved to brush her tears –– _God, I thought..._ –– but Roose kissed every stray tear until Sansa was visibly shaking in his arms. ‘What sort of trouble?’ 

His jaw tightened, ‘Stannis will not explain. He thinks it’ll save him from the execution block’ 

She raised an eyebrow at his words. ‘I’ll come with you to speak to him’ 

Roose nodded, pushing her flowy hair away from her face as he said, ‘tomorrow morning then’


	32. Wights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis reveals too much that puts Sansa and Roose in a difficult position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead.

Stannis Baratheon sat tied to a chair in a sparsely furnished room in the deep crevices of Winterfell. Sansa looked around the room, wondering what Lord Eddard Stark used this room for; did he hold men hostage here? Did his own father? 

The pretender king was slumped in his chair, sullenly glaring at Roose, but once he caught sight of Sansa his gaze turned sharper as he straightened. ‘Lady Stark’ 

Sansa scowled at him, ‘its Lady Bolton now’  
‘Ah’ he smirked humorlessly, motioning with his chin towards a terribly silent Roose, ‘you’ve fallen to his clutches. I tried to warn your bastard brother to come fetch you’ 

Cersei Lannister and the horrors at the Red Keep have taught Sansa the most valuable lesson to keep her expression in check. _Jon knew I was here and did not come for me?_ It hurt her, but then she had never been nice to Jon–– had never truly treated him like a brother, she could not blame Jon Snow. She turned to look at her husband, to see if he would begin the questioning, but he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest, his eyes unseeing as he stared at Stannis. Sansa decided to goad the pretender king into speaking instead. 

She moved towards him and sighed, ‘how is my brother doing at the Wall? I heard he has been elected as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch’ 

‘And what a buggering position that is’ he spat out, ‘your brother does not know the first thing about leading men’ 

‘I’d say you aren’t so good yourself. Considering your position, no my lord?’ 

Stannis ground his teeth testily. ‘I’ll not be mocked by a girl’ 

‘Answer her questions’ Roose murmured. No edge to his voice, no restrained violence, no hostility; and yet the softness of his tone was powerful enough to make Sansa shudder. Stannis was bad-tempered, she could clearly see that; easily baited and full of pride. His silence was one of simmering rage almost overflowing. Roose on the other hand was amiably murderous; he would smile, joke, be soft-toned, and while he spun you a web of affable comfort and ease, while you fell in step with him, like a serpent he would come up behind you and _strike_. 

Sansa returned her gaze to Stannis, hoping he would know better than to cross Roose Bolton again. 

‘Lord Commander Snow?’ she prompted him. 

Stannis stared directly at her as he spoke, ‘Is on the brink of a mutiny. The men despise his leniency, they despise his association with the Free Folk. He galivants around with giants and god-buggering wildlings from beyond the Wall. He even took a spearwife as a bed mate, did you hear that? I wonder what good and honorable Ned Stark would have thought? A young lord debasing himself with buggering wildlings.’ 

Sansa eased the unrestrained violence bubbling within her, instead she eased out a breath and asked, ‘And you have not helped him yourself, my lord?’

‘There are bigger issues at hand, _girl_ , than the political legitimacy of a leader of rapists and criminals––’ Sansa cut him off with a grimace, ‘Ah, your crown?’ 

‘The _Wights_ ’ he whispered viciously. The word was recognizable, she could feel it stirring in the dark recesses of her mind but could not easily grasp its significance to her. She turned to look at Roose, only to find him staring back at her, lips pursed in concentration as he watched her face for any sign of recognition. 

She shook her head at him to explain but he kept his steady gaze leveled at her unyieldingly. 

‘Do you know what a Wight is, Sansa Stark? Or a White Walker?’ Stannis asked her. 

‘I..I..’ she stumbled for a moment digging into her memories, a White Walker sounded much more familiar. _In that darkness the White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders as big as hounds_ , Old Nan’s withered and aging face filled Sansa’s vision, bent over her needlework as she tucked the young Stark children to sleep. 

_‘And what do they do when they come?’ Bran had asked, eyes wide and unblinking._

_Arya had an excitable affection for the morbid, she jumped across the bed she and Sansa shared to young Bran’s bed, shouting shrilly, ‘they wake the dead!’_

Sansa met Stannis’ direct gaze. ‘They wake the dead. Old Nan used to tell us tales of White Walkers waking an army of the dead’

Stannis Baratheon glanced between Sansa and Roose. ‘This is bigger than the Seven Kingdoms or the Iron Throne, the Wights are just beyond the Wall and they will come to Westeros eventually. We need to be prepared.’ He shifted towards Roose, who kept staring at Sansa before him, ‘You and I, Bolton, need to be prepared. If we bring our armies together, we can safeguard the North, perhaps even the Vale and Riverlands against their spread against these unholy demons’ 

Sansa visibly shook now. As a child she used to imagine the monstrous tales Old Nan used to spin for them, she pictured armies of sluggish moving corpses with limbs unattached and bones visible through their skin. 

Roose realised she began shaking and glanced at his feet in contemplation, ‘These are not unholy demons, these are tales. Tales of old midwives and Free Folk, that need not concern us’ 

Stannis looked at her husband incredulously and shouted, ‘I’ve told you before, they are not ta––’  
‘––Please refrain from spreading false tales. You claim that we should band armies, I apologize, Stannis, but where is your army? You’ve starved them to death because of your senseless quest for the crown, and those who survived the cold winter, were slaughtered by men. You’re not done with your pursuit of the Iron Throne’ Roose’s gaze settled upon Stannis, heavy and murderous, ‘you’ve sacrificed your own daughter on an altar of flames to that heathen Red God for the throne’ 

Stannis was brimming with rage, but at the mention of his daughter a grim expression filled his face. He stared at the ground in silence. 

‘I-I don’t understand. Sacrificed his daughter?’ Sansa felt her airways constricting with difficulty. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Roose reconsidered sharing, but he pushed himself off the wall and moved towards Sansa. ‘Stannis Baratheon is a follower of the God R’hllor, the Lord of Light. I believe a Red Priestess was part of your moving court, hmm? He was persuaded by the Priestess to sacrifice his daughter, a girl of only a handful of summers, to the flames in order to bless his campaign against us’ 

Sansa stared slack-mouthed at the balding head of Stannis Baratheon. Roose grabbed the man’s chin to make him look at him, ‘If the crown is no longer important, then why burn your only daughter? Why starve an army and slaughter the rest? Why march on a fortified stronghold, thinking you can be King?’ 

When he did not respond, Roose pushed him away with apparent disgust. 

Stannis turned to Sansa in order to intercede on his behalf. ‘Lady Sansa, I did not abandon your brother to the mutiny, nor to the army of the dead. I-I tried to legitimate him, I told him he could be Jon Stark, and if he had marched with me Wintefell would be his. He would be Lord of Winterfell’ 

Sansa thought if she spoke, she would be shrill and mad. But she surprised herself when she moved closer to Stannis, leaning forward into his face until she was uncomfortably close to him. ‘Winterfell is not yours to give, the title of Lord is not yours to give, your daughter’s life was not yours to sacrifice. You will gain no sympathy from me. You are only a pretender king, a traitor, and a murderer of your daughter. You are in no position to plead for your life, because it is in our hands; how does it feel like to feel so powerless? Do you feel what your poor daughter must’ve experienced? Having no control over your fate, having others dictate whether you would live or die?’ 

She straightened, eyes like glaciers piercing his pitiful expression. ‘I hope you are cursed with nightmares whenever you sleep. I hope you always remember what you did to your own flesh and blood’ 

Without waiting for Roose, Sansa exits from that arid dark room in careful steps. 

*** 

Roose found her in the stables, brushing her mare’s mane silently. She felt him behind her back; warm, safe, and _there_. His large palms held her forearms loosley, running his thumbs in circles against her. When she relaxed into his grasp, Roose turned her around to look at him; she didn't know what she looked like. She felt shaken up, as if someone had run ice pinpricks all across her insides until she couldn't feel a thing–– and yet, when Roose cupped both her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her lower lip, Sansa felt warmth envelope her. ‘I want to get away from here for a moment’ 

Roose’s grey eyes held her, searching and searching until he relented and nodded. ‘Lets go for a ride, you need some fresh air’ 

Although she felt capable of riding a horse by herself, Roose had deposited her on his own horse, and climbed up behind her, pulling her closer until she rested her head against his chest. It felt like they rode for ages, with Roose’s hand splayed across her stomach, his caresses drawing Sansa out of her shell. 

‘You were troubled by what he told you, the past few days?’ she murmured, her own hands wrapping around the one on her belly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ 

He was quiet for a moment, when Sansa moved to shift in her seat to look at him, he pushed her back into the warmth of his frame. ‘I hoped I would spare myself the look of horror on your face’ 

‘You can’t protect me from everything, Roose’ she murmured, even if she had hated what Stannis had to say; about the Wights, about Jon’s position, about Stannis’ poor daughter. Sansa realised Roose had been scared for her all those days, and would not tell her. ‘You can’t always protect me’ 

‘I promised you I would. I take my oaths seriously’ She opened her mouth but was quickly cut off by Roose’s curt retort, ‘if you mention Robb, Sansa, so help me gods’ 

One side of her mouth pulled up in a sardonic smile, ‘No, I won’t mention Robb.’ Her heart thrummed against her chest at his words. He was worried about her, could it be possible that he was developing feelings for her? _No. Impossible._

 

‘Can we unmount? I need to see you’ She asked, and he grunted his aquiesence. 

Once he had tied his mare to a nearby tree, and the two of them stood facing each other as if in a duel, did Sansa finally speak. ‘I want you to send men to help Jon.’ 

He studied her expressionlessly. ‘To the Wall?’ 

‘Yes’ She nodded, tangling her hands together. ‘If there is a mutiny, he needs protection. What if they kill him?’ 

‘Sansa…’  
‘You heard what Stannis said! My brother’s life is in danger. We can help him’ she pleaded, she could feel the tears welling in her eyes. Why was she always so free with her emotions around this man? Why did he bring her to the brink of tumultuous feeling? ‘Please, Roose. He’s the only family I have left’ 

The final sentence made him flinch. Did she offend him? Had he expected her to consider him her family now? He didn’t pursue that point. 

‘You can’t believe everything Stannis says, your brother has grown among his band of brothers. Stannis wants us to believe him. As for sending men, we have been through a winter siege, and a war, our men and resources are depleted Sansa, you’ve seen the ledgers. You know’ 

Her mind whirred for other excuses, any pragmatic reasons that could push him to reconsider. ‘Consider them scouts for the Wights. While some of them investigate this terror, the others can protect Jon. Roose, please. Please don’t make me beg for his life.’ 

'There are no Wights, Sansa. They are only tales'

She shook her head manically at him, 'but what if they are real? Roose, _please_

‘Sansa’ he said with finality, grabbing her chin to look at his serious expression. Tears streamed freely down her face now, not one of them had moved him an inch. 

‘N-no?’ she stuttered miserably.  
‘No, Sansa’ 

She pushed his hand away, and rubbed a hand over her face to brush her tears away. After a moment or two to regulate her breathing, she looked up at him and nodded. 

He tried to reach out for her, but Sansa crossed her arms against her chest and flinched from him. ‘Don't touch me’ 

She caught him off guard, she could see the shock on his face–– eyes no longer calculating and steady, but trailing all over her expressionless face and defensive, tense body. ‘Listen to me, Sansa. This is for your own good––’ 

She spared him a withering glance, gave him her back and started walking towards the castle. He called after her and attempted to clutch her elbow to escort her to his horse but she jumped back from his touch, rounding on him with a violent expression, ‘I never want you to touch me again’ 

For awhile as she walked she couldn’t hear him behind her. She didn't look either, to see whether he followed her or not. After a few steps, she heard the trotting of the mare as it followed her. Lord Bolton, Warden of the North, marched beside her on his feet, dragging his mare behind them, the two of them unable to speak.


	33. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose is at a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, more angst. promise it gets better next chapter, although with a tad more angst. but angst with porn. what can be better.

It has been weeks since Roose had any word from his spies. 

He was not sure what sort of omen that was. After Stannis’ first mention of the reanimation of the dead beyond the Wall, Roose felt he was jolted back into his childhood bed–– when his mother used to spin tales for him before he slept. She had told him of the White Walkers, how they descend upon burial places to reanimate the dead and march their army of the dead upon the innocents. Young Roose had shivered in his bed clothes with a slack mouth and an over-excited imagination. At night he would toss and turn in his bed, afraid he would die in his sleep and would be brought from the dead to do the bidding of terrifying creatures. But as he got older, and his father began to instill the ruthless army man in him, he pushed the fairy tales and horror to the back of his mind, but it was always there at the back of his mind, along with his dead mother. But, was Stannis speaking the truth? Roose could not live in a world where he does not know something for certain. After his first audience with Stannis, before he decided to bring Sansa to hear his piece as well, Roose sent a raven to the spies he had set up in White Harbour – he always kept an eye on his Northern Lords – to take the first ship heading to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and investigate without catching anyone’s attention. 

Weeks have passed, and there was no reply back.   
Stannis lay rotting in his putrid room.   
Sansa treated Roose with glacial civility.   
And Roose, the fool he was, felt an aching pain in his chest. 

He attempted to speak to his wife on several occasions, but in the end, she would not falter in her course of action. She had made her intentions clear, _I never want you to touch me again_. Roose had thought he had done it all right; brought Sansa as his ward, coaxed her until she felt a certain warmth towards him – dare he say, she almost cared for him? –, had decided to battle out Stannis until he could peacefully reign in the North, with Sansa safe and  
Sound by his side. But it was all buggered. Not only had he irrevocably hurt Sansa by not sending men to help her bastard of a brother, but then these rumors circulating of a dark evil descending towards them. If Sansa dies because of this….

_No._

He will not think about _that_.

He didn’t send a fucking retinue of soldiers to the North because it was political bloody suicide. The newly appointed, and legitimately precarious, Warden of the North cant have Northern folk whispering about soldiers marching to the Wall, he couldn't have his people giving way to mass panic. Not now. Not when everything hung in the balance, not when nothing was certain. It was bad enough that his wife wanted him to send men to protect a fucking possible Stark heir to his title at winterfell, even if sansa was his wife, even if Jon Snow was a bastard. Roose had been close to legitimising Ramsay, if he hadn't gone and got himself killed. Perhaps he could’ve explained this to Sansa, but must he explain everything to her? Roose was already quite shaken by his visceral reactions to her. He felt that if he didnt keep himself in check, whatever Sansa asked for, he would more than eagerly give her. 

A buggering fool who cared much for a wife that couldn’t stand to be near her. He was unable to come to terms with how much she had lodged herself in his chest. The sentiment felt vile to him, and yet it was all he could think of with their impending mortality on the horizon. He _cared_ for the girl, and it made him steel himself against her even more for fear of what it would make him do. 

Roose planned things, he was pragmatic about matters of state. He kept his thoughts and plans to himself, but he still managed to listen to others’ counsel – it was his only criticism of young Robb Stark while they were campaigning, but the rut never listened. The thought that Sansa would join her brother and the rest of her dead relatives in Winterfell’s crypts made him sit up in their bed, watching the girl’s frame beside him as it rose and fell during her sleep; assuring him she lived. He was all these things, but this avid need to please Sansa? That was dangerous. It would crumble whatever fragile hold he had over the North if he did every single thing Sansa wanted. Go find her two younger brothers, possible contenders to his position? Send a fucking garrison to protect a grown, capable male heir, even if he was a bastard? March an army to the wall, for all the folk to see and think he was a fool for sending soldiers to fight fucking snow balls when no one knew what this business of the wights was really about. 

He wanted to do all that, and anything more to please her. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. 

And Stannis, was another matter. Giving off titles like his frigid arse was already on the Iron Throne. Roose didn't need him. The man’s army was destroyed. As for his military prowess, hundreds of Roose’s own men were much more experienced with the Northern terrain. They would fend off any attacks coming from the Lannisters, if the lion bastards ever pluck themselves out from the quagmire of the Riverlands. No, Roose did not need Stannis. 

As if sensing his own fragile mortality, Roose wanted to spend every moment with Sansa, listening to her laughter, watching her read her book of songs, going over ledgers together, and of course having her writhe beneath him. But his wife has shunned him. He lay in bed beside her, wanting her, tasting her, but being unable to touch her. 

He was a fool for thinking she would come to see him as anything but like a villain in her romantic tales. 

*** 

Right when he was on the verge of giving up on the men he had sent, Roose was surprised to hear that one of the spies awaited him in his solar to report. He was having breakfast with Sansa that morning, unable to keep his gaze from the meticulous way she nibbled on the freshly-baked bread before her. The civil vocabulary she extended to him simply included _Good morning, my lord I’m off to inspect the ledgers, my lord I’m off to ride with Theon and Brienne, my lord Thank you, I’m not hungry, my lord, I will retire Good night, my lord_

Gone was the shy expressive smiles she threw at him, her simpering half-lidded gazes of desire she bestowed upon him as his hand clutched her thigh beneath the table, the soft brush of her lips against his when she woke drowsily in the morning. Roose shut his eyes to resist the urge to pull her into his lap and beg her to speak to him. 

‘My lord’   
He opened his eyes to meet her direct Tully blue gaze. Her face was sallow, the cheekbones more defined than he was familiar. It was like looking at the Sansa he had brought from Kings Landing, the fragile girl that came out of the litter in Moat Cailin. He remembered how her silk nightgown had hugged her ample thighs and breasts, but now, when he watched her climb into bed beside him, the fabric was loose around her frame. Roose despised himself for it. ‘Yes, Sansa?’

‘I’ve decided to send Lady Brienne on an errand.’ she murmured, pouring herself water in her goblet, ‘to find my brothers’ 

Roose stared back at her. _As queen you may do as you please_ , he had told her so, didn’t he? 

He realised she was holding her breath, waiting for his response. ‘Lady Brienne?’   
‘I thought of sending Theon with her, but it would only slow her down. She works better by herself.’ She had already planned anything. She was not waiting for his approval–– she was simply letting him know of her decisions. 

‘Sansa, I––’ but he was cut off with the message of the spy waiting for him. He caught Sansa’s curious gaze as the man walked out of the room, shifting to him as he rubbed his eyes in tiredness. ‘Excuse me’ 

The man looked haggard, shivering vigorously in front of the blazing fire in Roose’s Solar. When he saw Roose enter the chamber, the man, Taryn, bowed to his lord and said, ‘apologizes for the late report, my lord, Kell and myself found ourselves in need of more time to gather enough information’ 

Roose was on the brink of impatience, but he sighed and motioned for the man to take a seat. ‘Where is Kell?’ 

‘By now, I would say he had returned back to Castle Black with Jon Snow and the wildling horde’ 

Roose raised an eyebrow, ‘Wildling horde?’ 

‘Let me explain, my lord. Once we arrived at Eastwatch, we found it swarming with Wildlings, as Jon Snow had gave the castle to settle in with the Night's Watch. We asked around what had brought all these Free Folk from beyond the Wall’ 

‘And?’ 

Taryn audibly swallowed, ‘It is said that they are escaping an army of the dead. When Jon Snow was beyond the Wall with his band of brothers fighting Mance Ryder, they stumbled upon walking dead, Wights, it was enough to scare the men to bring some Wildlings back with them for safety.’ 

‘why was I not informed of this immediately?’ Roose glared at the man before him. An army of the dead, and Wildlings in the North? 

‘Because when we arrived at Eastwatch, Tormund Giantsbane, leader of the Wildlings now was accompanying Jon Snow beyond the Wall to bring more Wildings to Westeros’ 

What was that bloody bastard doing? ‘Why is he allowing wildlings to cross the Wall?’   
Taryn rubbed his face nervously, ‘Lord Commander believes that they need all the men he could muster to stop the Wights’ crawl towards the Wall. Kell is pretending to be amongst his retinue that is heading back to Castle Black, when he has further information on what Commander Snow’s next move is, he will send a raven’ 

Roose stared at the flames, unseeing, his mind whirring. ‘The wights. They are real?’ 

Taryn nodded. ‘All the wildlings, and some Night’s Watch men have told me tales of their encounter with them’ 

Roose thanked Taryn, and sent him off. Once the door had clicked into place, Roose leaned forward in his chair and placed his face into his hands. He could not think straight. It was real. It was not a figment of every old Northern woman’s imagination, it was not his mother’s horror tales to get him to stay away from his father’s blood thirst, it was not Sansa’s Old Nan scaring the Stark into obedience. Roose thought he would be more concerned with how he would maintain the North, but all he could think of was _Sansa Sansa Sansa._

Suddenly, he felt an iciness spread across his chest. He had a vision of Sansa in her white nightgown, but not loose around her, no, but tight around her midriff, her hand around the swell of her stomach. _No_. 

 

*** 

Sansa had just returned to their bed chambers after bidding Brienne farewell. The Lady Knight looked regal in her yellowed-bronze armour, her blue eyes shining with the mission ahead of her. ‘My lady’ the woman said, ‘I could go assist Jon Snow against his mutiny, if it is your wish’ 

Theon jumped at the suggestion, ‘I can join her, Sansa’ 

The lady of Winterfell shook her head solemnly at them, not wanting to think of _him_. ‘Jon does not need two more reasons for men to denounce him. He needs more armed men, but we cant give him that. Theon, I need you by my side here.’ 

She turned to Brienne, ‘and the Lady Brienne, is more than capable in her search for my brothers’ 

‘And the lady Arya’ the woman prompted her with puppyish loyalty. _Arya would push you off your horse if she heard you calling her a lady_ , Sansa managed to smile to the woman. ‘Yes. Arya as well.’ 

‘I will not disappoint you, my lady. I will bring back the Stark boys’ 

As she stood clutching Theon’s hand in hers, her heart squeezing with so much hope, they watched Brienne of Tarth pass through the gates of Winterfell out to the unknown. 

Back in her chambers, she found her husband sitting at the edge of their bed. Seeing him was a particularly difficult exercise for Sansa–– the sight of him hurt her because of the pain he was causing her, and because of how _much_ she missed him. Gods, she missed him. She would be sitting beside him as they read through the ledgers, and he would move to grab another parchment from beside her, and his proximity would drive her mad with want and yearning. As they lay in bed, she felt that the rift between them had expanded far too much to be mended; and yet, she craved it. 

And now, when Roose Bolton looked up at her approaching, Sansa stood stock still. His face was twisted into something akin to panic or alarm. Roose, alarmed? Sansa pinched herself through her frock to steady her swaying feet. ‘Ro–My lord, is something the matter?’ 

‘I was a fool’ he started, getting up to move towards her, and something small like a phial glimmered in his large palm, ‘I-I did not think to consider, everything has changed.’ 

He was scaring her. She searched his alarmed expression for any indication of what he meant. ‘I don’t understand’ 

He didn’t try to say anything further, and composed his face mechanically. He pushed the phial into her shaking palm and wrapped his hands around hers. 

‘What is this?’ she asked, quietly, slowly understanding. She could smell the herbs _tansy, mint, wormwood…_  
He met her gaze directly, ‘Moon Tea’. 

Sansa glanced between their hands and his _soft_ expression. ‘No.’ She hadn’t thought of the possibility of her being with child, of course they had made love countless times since their wedding night; but the past weeks’ lack of _nightly activities_ had not made it a matter of concern to Sansa. Was she with child now? Oh gods. She couldn’t be sure. 

He was giving her Moon Tea. She stared up at him through teary, blurry eyes. He was done with her, he despised her so much that he would rob her of a child; that he would not debase himself to spring a child on her. Sansa shook her head at him, and pushed him away, ‘ _No._ ’ 

She expected him to wrestle her to the ground and shove the herbs into her mouth, no steeping in hot water needed, he just wanted the child out of her. But Roose clutched her forearms and pressed her against him. ‘Sansa, listen to me, _please_ ’ 

‘Why, Roose?’ she sobbed, ‘Am I nothing to you at all? Why?’ 

‘Sansa’ he sounded _so_ anguished, the sound so foreign and out of place for Sansa. To her surprise, he cupped her cheeks with both hands and spoke to her so softly, ‘are you with child?’ 

‘I-I don’t know’ she muttered between sobs. 

‘Then you have to take the Moon Tea, please, I’ll explain everything’ his hold on her was becoming tighter, ‘no more secrets, Sansa. I will explain’ 

She couldn’t stop breathing so erratically, couldn’t _stop_ to listen to him. He enveloped her into his arms, one arm across her back pressing her to him, and the other rubbing the downy hair at the back of her neck. The feel of him, warm and _there_ after so long of wanting him seemed to help her catch her breath. 

‘Will you allow me to speak?’ Roose’s lips brushed against the curve of her ear. 

She wished she hadn’t let him. She let him carry her to their bed, and quietly explained how he had sent me over the Wall, how Jon was building a motley army of wildlings and watchmen, how the Wights were real, and they were coming. 

Sansa grew quieter and quieter as he spoke. Once he was done, she pressed the balls of her hands into her eyes until she saw red, ‘You believed Stannis’ 

‘I needed to make sure’ he nodded, pushing her hands away to let him see her face clearly. ‘I didn’t want to scare you until I knew for sure’   
Sansa searched his face, ‘And now the wights are coming’   
‘And you _can’t_ be with child, Sansa’ he sounded desperate, it made Sansa blink several times at him. 

‘But you wanted heirs, the Bolton line needs heirs’ she tried to reason with him, but he shook his head at her.   
‘Not if the Wights are coming, not if they’ll be in danger. Not if it’ll put _you_ in danger’ 

Sansa met his gaze. _Be honest_ , she thought, _do you truly care? ___

__‘Roose–’  
‘–If there is an army of the dead descending upon us in any moment, I do not want you to be helpless and with child. I cannot worry about both you _and_ our child, Sansa. Listen to reason’ _ _

__‘I am listening’ she murmured. ‘Roose, what does this mean?’_ _

__‘We will have to fight these demons. But,’ he looked at a point beyond Sansa’s shoulder, ‘I don’t know how.’_ _

__Sansa was at a loss for words. Roose seized the opportunity to speak, ‘but what I know, Sansa, is that I don’t think it wise for us to fight. I don't want to fight you’_ _

__‘I–’ she stared at him wonderingly, unable to fathom that Roose was disclosing his feelings. Sansa did not know what to say to that. So much had changed in a matter of minutes, but he had hurt her. She moved closer to him on their bed, caressing his cheek in affection, an affection she had been trying to kill for the past weeks, and said, ‘I will take the moon tea’ – Roose visibly relaxed under her touch, ‘I don’t want to fight with you either’_ _

__Roose fisted the material of the back of her frock, and brushed his lips against her in an experimental way. When Sansa did not pull back, her husband moved to capture her mouth in a searing open-mouthed kiss, a kiss far too much teeth than tongue, the heat building up between them until Sansa sagged against his violent kiss. _I’m sorry_ , his every tug at her lower lip seemed to say, and when they finally pulled back to breathe, Sansa pulled his hand against her stomach and said, ‘I would’ve wanted your child, no matter what had happened between us’ _ _

__Roose stared at her midriff with such misery, Sansa would not forget that look._ _


	34. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is frustrated. Roose sets out to amend that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much for all your comments and support! 
> 
> PSA: Moving forward, this story will be slightly non-canon. I am NOT killing off jon to revive him for no specific reason (fuck off D&D), so instead Jon lives a normal life as Lord Commander, no talk of being Azhor Ahai prophecy. We will still get Stark reunions (YAY), Dany x Jon flirtations, and Jon Targaryen business. But it'll be a little non-canon for the sake of this story being Roose & Sansa centric. 
> 
> and now back to the story.

When Sansa had first come from Kings Landing, her soul and body were battered. Bruises were littered over her skin, she flinched at the merest reminders of her harsh life at the Red Keep. And yet, even then, Roose Bolton did not treat her like an invalid as he did now. Before, he had pushed her to escape her demons, drawing her out from her shy shell towards lessons, riding, and even _him_. But now? Sansa felt as if he was tip-toeing around her. Afraid to startle her, afraid of saying too much, afraid to _touch_ her. She was going mad because of the detached way he treated her. 

After that night, when Roose had sent his steward for a cup of steaming water to make her moon tea; Sansa had thought that she would drink it, and they would go back to how things were. They would handle the wights together, but Roose would come to care for her, even sans heirs. She stood beside him as he ladled out an amount of the mixture into the cup, and mixed in a teaspoon of honey, keeping a careful eye on the way his expression was sober and concentrated. She let out a shaky breath, all her life, like all girls of good pedigree, she has been schooled to perform one task well; to give birth to healthy heirs. Sansa had never been asked if that is what she _truly_ wanted out of life, and the thought that it was not a pressing need for her to produce heirs at the moment was a strange one. It had shocked her at first, when he proposed it to her. Had their fight been so terrible that Roose would not want her? Did not need her to contribute anything to the legacy of House Bolton, not even with a babe? _It is not safe for babes_ , she understood what Roose meant now. There are more pressing matters to look to, but...Sansa had seen the forlorn expression that marred his face as he stared at her stomach. 

Glancing up at her quiet husband, Sansa found his eyes trained on the steeping moon tea. ‘If I am with child..’

She left the sentence hanging there. But Roose caught on, shifting his concentrated gaze towards her. ‘Then the moon tea would take care of it. It prevents women from becoming with child, either before or after they had lain with a man, or if they caught the first stirrings of a babe in their womb’ 

She knew what moon tea did, she had her formative years in the intrigues of Kings Landing; Sansa heard the ladies and courtiers exchanging recipes of the most effective concoctions to get rid of unwanted babes. Sansa asked because she wanted to know if _he_ was alright with this arrangement. She didn't press him any further, as he grabbed the cup once it was steeped properly and pressed it to Sansa’s outstretched palm. ‘Now, drink’ 

Roose watched her as she took a tentative sip to see how scalding the drink was.  
Roose watched her as she finished the cup in one gulp, resisting the heat burning her tongue, the roof of her mouth, her insides as the liquid poured within her.  
Roose watched her as she swallowed every last drop. 

Once he was satisfied, he put the empty cup back in its place on the tray and turned to face Sansa again. 

He sighed, reaching out for her shoulder, his palm spread across the sharp bones there. Sansa did not understand how she hadn’t singed his hand from how much her body craved him, he touched her as if it was a normal occurrence, as if they hadn’t pushed each other away for weeks, after a time when they wouldn't stop touching each other. She moved her gaze from the palm on her shoulder to stare up at him. 

‘And now?’ she asked.  
‘Now we wait’ _to see if I will bleed away our child_ , she understood.

‘What of the Wights?’

Roose released her from his hold, and ran his fingers through his sand-colored hair, eyes scanning her face for a reaction to what he was about to say next, ‘Since Lord Commander Snow is rallying up men in preparation, perhaps it would be wise to spare some men of our own to join him’ 

Sansa composed her face, she did not know how to react to this. ‘Soldiers? You’d send soldiers to Jon?’  
‘They’ll move at first light’ he nodded. 

She gave him a pointed look of dismissal, and an arch of an eyebrow that would’ve rivaled Cersei Lannister’s unimpressed expression. She left Roose in their bedroom’s solar, as she set to unbraid her hair and prepare herself for bed. 

***  
She did not bleed. Slowly it descended on her that perhaps she had never been with child; like every awful irony in her life, perhaps the lady Sansa Stark – _No, Bolton_ – cannot bear children. Or perhaps the drastic deterioration of her health after her spat with Roose had turned her body against her, back to the days when it bled and easily bruised. In any case, Sansa was not with child. It would not worry them with what they had ahead of them. 

But Roose was changed. 

That first night after she had drank the tea, he had not touched her in bed. Even if she had wanted him to. She made excuses for him; he was worried the effects would manifest themselves that night. He barely slept, and instead spent the night pushing the furs off them and grabbing Sansa’s nightgown between her legs to check for blood. When the second night had passed without anything, Sansa had been lying on her back with Roose looming above her, one hand wrapped around her gown, the other wrapped in her hair, grey midnight eyes blazing back at her, her husband leaned his forehead against hers, and without so much as a word, extricated himself from her and slept on his back, staring at the ceiling above them. 

Sansa thought, _If he moves to touch me, I will let him. I will forget that he did not want to help Jon, and I will touch him back. I will make him love me, even without a child._

But Roose didn’t touch her. He lay still, wide-eyed, and breathing harshly–– but he did not move to lay a hand on her. 

*** 

‘Has the Lord Commander accepted our men into his ranks?’ 

They were seated in the audience chamber for the morning’s correspondence and reports. Maesters, generals, and Roose’s men stood on alert as their lord’s voice boomed through the room. One of his generals nodded, stepping forward to report. ‘The men are stationed in Black Castle now, they have not received any further orders from the Lord Commander. It is unclear what Lord Snow aims to do’ 

Sansa moved forward in her seat, she was in one of her hybrid creations; a pale pink smock, with fur linings along the long sleeves’ slit. She felt Roose’s appreciative eyes on her when she walked into the audience chamber, but when she turned to catch his gaze he was back to looking at the ledgers before him. She frowned then. She kept waiting for his hand under the table, to sneak up her thigh until she pressed herself into the palm of his hand in want. But nothing happened. 

‘What of the mutiny? Have your men heard anything?’ 

The man did not question her, he turned to her and bowed deeply. ‘My lady, the black brothers have far too much on their mind. Be it the immigrating wildings, or the terror of the wights’ 

‘Thank you, Loewyn’ Roose’s soft drawl echoed in the room; a final and dismissive order. He avoided Sansa’s gaze again–– with the merest mention of the wights in front of her, Roose always cut the discussion short. As the men filtered out of the room, Sansa delicately laid her hand on the one Roose was transcribing something in the ledger before him; his depthless eyes shifted from the page to where her hand rested on his. ‘You’re doing it again’ 

His gaze flitted up to her face. Sansa sucked in a breath from how direct it was, from how it made her feel inside. ‘Doing what, Sansa?’ 

‘Avoiding me. Protecting me––’ But he cut her off, removing his hand from underneath her and looked at her pointedly, ‘I have sworn to protect you before the old and new gods’ 

‘But– But you’re different!’ she said irritably, ‘you treat me as if I am a child who doesn't understand, a child who should not hear a thing about the danger ahead of us. Its like..its like I’m not your wife!’ 

Roose leaned back in his chair, calm and collected with that unfathomless expression on his face, he leaned his chin on his open palm. ‘Would you like me to dress you up in chainmail, give you a weapon and a mare, and send you off to the wall?’ 

Sansa’s frustration and irritation ebbed, and she blinked at Roose. She almost forgot how chillingly unnerving Roose Bolton can be. ‘Are you supposed to be making fun of me?’ she said, dead-panned. 

‘Are you done with your childish tantrum?’ 

Irrational anger bubbled to the surface, Sansa glared at him, then at the room around her. Unthinkingly, she grabbed the glass water pitcher and tossed it across the room with violent intent. Without looking to see Roose’s reaction, Sansa moved towards the doors. He was driving her _mad_. 

*** 

She was half-asleep when he came to their bed at the end of the day. The violent rage that had enveloped her took its toll on her, her body felt tired. She lay still under the furs curled up on her side, with eyes shut in pretense as she regulated her breathing. Sansa felt him undress from his leathers behind her–– she shut her eyes violently, the idea of him undressing as he faced her, his hands skimming over his body as he removed articles of clothing, standing stark-naked over her; _wanting her_. 

But he didn't want her. He would’ve tried to take up his husband duties for the very least, but what was the point? She was a broken child to him, in need of sheltering and protection. Not a wife, not if she couldn’t bear him children. What was the point of her in his bed now?

She was jolted from her thoughts when she felt him slide into bed beside her, not to settle on his side of the bed, far away from her, but pressed himself against her back. She could feel his hardened manhood behind her, the stiffness of it against the softness of her arse. He brought his hand to caress her forearm, leaning forward to press a kiss where his hand roved, ‘Sansa?’ he murmured. 

Her desire stunned her, forcing her clamp up and lay unmoving against Roose’s thick frame. She didn't indicate she had heard him. ‘You can’t be asleep, there are still several things to break around Winterfell’ If Sansa could scowl, she would, but she remained still. His hand roamed across her body, moving to spread against her stomach in a fluttering motion, until he reached her breast and cupped it softly, when Sansa helplessly rubbed her thighs together against the stickiness gathering between her legs did Roose’s palm press harshly against her already painfully hard nipple. When he removed his hand, a restless noise erupted from the back of Sansa’s throat–– prompting Roose to pull her towards him until she lay on her back, staring up at him. She noticed he was utterly undressed, his sharp defined body in full display for her. She ripped her hungry, yet angry, gaze from his body to meet his gaze. It was dark in the room, but she caught the silhouette of his sharp jaw, the protruding cheek-bones, and the glint in his eyes. Before either of them would say a word, Roose set to unlace the knot at her throat, when he saw no resistance from Sansa, he pushed the grown over her shoulder, and aggressively tugged it until he had her naked underneath him. 

‘You’re angry at me’ Roose said, laying his hand on her exposed hip; his fingertips burning through her skin.  
She stared back at him, ‘Yes’  
‘Because you believe I don’t want you anymore’  
‘Well, do you?’ his hand ghosted over her upper thighs. Sansa felt as if her whole body was on fire, heavy and straining against Roose’s touch. 

He held her gaze as he moved to grab her hand, ‘I’ve always wanted you, Sansa’  
She shook her head at him, feeling venomous all of a sudden, her frustration forcing her to bait him to get a reaction out of him. ‘Liar’ 

His open mouth crashed into hers, capturing her lower lip between his teeth, pulling at them until Sansa groaned into his mouth helplessly. _gods_ she missed him. As he deepened the kiss, Sansa felt herself meld against the feather-mattress bed beneath them, Roose’s body rutting against hers with abandon. The feel of the sticky liquid coming off the tip of Roose’s manhood rubbing against her stomach made her move her hands to wrap it around his neck, trying to pull him closer. But Roose stopped the ascent of her hands by clutching both her wrists aggressively together, ‘No. You don’t believe I want you, you will lie still and let me prove it to you’ 

‘Roose’ she mumbled incoherently through her desire, but was silenced when Roose flipped her onto her stomach, pinning her hands behind her back with one hand, rendering her immobile. The other hand grabbed Sansa’s hips, positioning her until she lay face down on the bed with her knees open, with her breasts chafing against the furs, and Roose pressed up against her slick entry. ‘I want you, Sansa. I was scared for you, but I want you’ 

It was all he said before he pushed himself inside her. Sansa moaned throatily against the furs, the feel of Roose so fully inside her was unlike all the times he had taken her. This way he was able to reach so deeply inside her, moving rhythmically until Sansa found a dynamic she felt good in and began to rut back against him. Her body clenched and tightened, breaking out into goosebumps and experiencing the highs and lows of changing body temperatures from how hurriedly and frantically Roose was pushing inside her. Her orgasm took her by surprise, convulsing against the restrained position Roose had her in. When she was done, Roose was still at it, hearing her cries of the intense onslaught of her desire, the sensitivity of her cunt against his thrusts. 

When they finished, Roose let go of Sansa, and let her switch back to lying on her back, so she could look up at him. His eyes were frantic and searching, he breathed heavily through his nose, jaw clenched terribly shut. Sansa rubbed her thumb against his cheek, pulling him into sleep beside her. She huddled into his side and wrapped one leg around his midriff, feeling his arm move around her until it cupped her arse possessively. 

Sansa was at a loss of words. Roose seemed tense underneath her, as if he could not believe he was so unrestrained in his actions, but finally he spoke. ‘Perhaps you should break more things’ 

Sansa laughed, the sound prompting Roose to stare at her in wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	35. Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to communicate.

Sansa felt like a moon-struck girl, as if she was with Jeyne Poole again running through Winterfell to watch Knights train in their grounds, losing sleep over thoughts of beautiful, romantic gestures. She sat through court audiences, dinners, and even when she watched Theon train, unable to keep herself from mooning over Roose. _He’s your husband!_ She tried to rationalize with herself; she didn’t need to act like a silly girl with a crush on Lord Roose Bolton, she already _has_ him. _Do you?_ Gods, she couldn’t focus on anything else but him. 

One morning, she had woken up before he did and watched him stir awake. Roose had one arm tossed around Sansa, his mouth in a thin line as if he was plotting even in his sleep, but there was a softness about his face that fascinated Sansa. His day old stubble cast a shadow along his sharp jaw, a shade darker than his sand-colored hair that lay wild about his head from tossing and turning in his sleep. She liked waking up first, it allowed her time to soak up the stillness of her husband beside her; sure, big, and warm–– the threat of Wights and a broken kingdom a far away thing. What mattered was how Roose sighed in his sleep, moving further towards Sansa, as if she was all he needed. How could she explain all this to him? 

Before she could stop herself, Sansa ran a finger across his lower lip, protruding and pink, feeling a shiver wrack her body. As if her touch had the power to awaken him, Roose’s brilliantly bright eyes opened to stare back at Sansa’s wide-eyed ones. 

‘Good morning’ he murmured groggily, capturing her roaming finger between his teeth. 

She blinked back at him, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you’ 

‘I wish you’d wake me up more often’ he sounded amused, playful even. She withdrew her finger from his grasp, and tucked her hand under her chin, looking at Roose stretch drowsily. 

‘Roose’  
He had sat up on the edge of their bed, his back to Sansa, the bed furs around his naked waist as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.‘Hmm?’  
‘Nothing’ He turned his head slightly to raise an eyebrow at her.  
‘What is it?’  
‘I can’t sleep,’ she said, her tongue running on its own accord, ‘I can't eat either’

Roose reached for her elbow and pulled her upright until she sat on her knees beside him. ‘Are you ill? Sansa,’ he stilled, eyes suddenly fierce, ‘Are you with–Did you stop drinking your Moon tea?’ 

‘No!’ she yelped in alarm, clutching his arms fiercely. Gods she was stupid. _Form coherent sentences, Sansa, speak!_. 

He visibly relaxed, but her hesitation had gotten on his nerves. She could see it, in the way he set his jaw, how he pronounced each word stiffly,‘Then what is the matter?’

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. ‘Nothing’ _I keep thinking about you throughout the day I keep staring at you throughout the day I keep wanting you throughout the day. I need you I need you I need you._

He kept his levelled gaze on her face, as if he slowly began to comprehend her strange behavior. He brushed her hair away, exposing one rounded shoulder where her nightgown had fallen down her arm during sleep, and descended on it with barely restrained hunger to plant an affectionate kiss on the burning skin. The feel of his lips against her skin turned Sansa’s insides to molten fire. She shut her eyes against the feeling, her brows creasing with effort to remain still under his hungry mouth. ‘I think I’m in love with you’ 

His mouth stilled over her. She will not open her eyes to look at him; she does not want to see the hesitant rejection on his face. She does not want to see how little she means to him. For a moment neither of them say anything to the other, but then Sansa finds herself being pulled onto Roose’s lap, his hands fisting the back of her nightgown, lips returning to her rounded shoulder. ‘Say it again’ he murmured against her, his voice muffled and strange. 

‘What––I?’ She gasped against the harsh feel of his stubble rubbing against her skin, his straining cock against her entrance.  
‘Say it again, Sansa.’ It was not an order, he was asking her; no, _begging_ her. She opened her eyes, and stared at the back of his head, her fingers threading through the blond hair there until he pulled back to meet her heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Say it’ he asks again, their lips brushing against each other, their breaths hot and rushed. 

‘I said,’ Sansa felt emboldened, grabbing his hardness and lining herself against it, she felt Roose’s breath catch in anticipation, his eyes roaming all over her face. ‘I think, I am in love with you’ 

She lowered herself onto him, and muffled a sob at how good it felt by biting on her tongue. Roose had an iron grasp on her hips, guiding her, when she was jerkily moving, into a rhythm that pressed her flush against him when their bodies met. ‘You don’t understand what you’re saying’ he breathes softly against her throat. _believe me believe me_ , her desperate clutching at his body seemed to say. 

‘I do’ she sobbed. He left a trail of wet, hungry kisses along her throat and neck, until he reached her mouth; pulling on her lower lip with his teeth harshly. ‘Roose, I understand. I love you’ 

He groaned into her mouth, fingers digging into her skin, already imagining the bruises forming as the day progressed. 

A loud, frantic thudding came from the door. It broke Sansa’s established rhythm as she pried herself off a very irritated Roose, who followed her with his gaze like he was about to tear right through her like a predator if she moves further away from him. ‘Yes?’ He said testily, eyes watching Sansa catch her breath as she wrapped the furs around her. 

The man’s voice travelled through the shut door in urgency, ‘Apologies, my lord. We’ve spotted an army moving towards Winterfell.’

Sansa was surprised to feel Roose clutch her hand; was it to reassure her or himself? She met his gaze. ‘Who’s army is it?’ 

But Sansa knew the answer before it was said. ‘Lord Commander Snow. He comes in peace, his messenger says, he wants to see his sister, Lady Sansa’ 

‘Very well’ Roose said, calm and in control, his eyes on the door now. ‘prepare for his arrival’ 

The man had left. Sansa watched Roose turn back to her, his eyes devoid of the previous soft, rabid affection, and instead leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, ran a hand through his face as if to prepare himself, and looked towards Sansa in a way that said, _very well, your move now, Sansa._

Jon was coming. Jon was coming to see her. 

She got on her knees infront of Roose, as he watched her through desire-muddled eyes. Sansa held his cheek, her thumb rubbing affectionately against the corner of his mouth. ‘I love you’ 

He didn’t say it back. Sansa was not expecting it. Instead, he went down on his knees before her, pulling her into his arms, and whispered softly against the shell of her ear, ‘I _won’t_ lose you'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: roose meets the inlaws.


	36. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow arrives. Sansa and Roose talk of their family memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for all the kind comments!! they keep me going x

It would do Roose no good to think that the Snow bastard had caught him off guard. It would do him no good to think that the Warden of the North had been so consumed with his young wife to think that a man mustering up a buggering army of wildlings and outlaw men could not simply march on his ancestral home to take it when the opportunity presented itself. Roose stood at the parapets of Winterfell, watching the young Jon Snow ride at the head of his army. An army full of wildlings. Roose had never seen so many Free Folk in his entire life. He stared for a moment at the advancing host and steeled himself; _I’ve stumbled, this changes nothing_ , he reminded himself as he descended into the courtyard. 

Waiting for him below was Sansa, _his Sansa_ , decked out in grey and blue, a soft material wrap dress that hugged her curves - the curves Roose had been clutching at so manically in bed earlier that morning - and which illuminated her long frame. It did not pass his notice that these were Stark colors. _A Stark welcoming a Stark_ , he thought bitterly to himself. She smiled broadly when their eyes met, and her frankness softened the steel Roose had began to settle around himself once he heard of Snow's approach. _I think I'm in love with you_ , she had told him. Perhaps she meant it, the fool in him whole-heartedly believed her. Roose gave his wife a onceover, letting his gaze linger purposefully over her choice of gown. She frowned for a moment, until realisation spread across her face and slid her hand into his coaxingly. 'Do you like my dress, my lord?' 

'Quite dashing colors' he drawled out. Sansa surprised him by laughing, quite audibly, that Roose found himself watching her in fascination like a damned child; her pearl white teeth peeking from between her pink, lush lips, the red color high on her cheeks. 

Once she had collected herself again, she dimpled up at him. 'Your solemnity is amusing. Well sometimes' 

Roose raised an eyebrow at her, tugging her closer to stand pressed against him. 'And other times?' 

'You're terrifying' she murmured, her thumb rubbed against the back of his palm. 'But it is why you're Warden of the North' 

'Perhaps your brother will find me fetching' 

She laughed again. Roose was almost impressed with himself. 

As custom, the horns blared with the opening of the castle’s gates, Jon Snow and his retinue of men dressed in a motley of black and sand-colored furs filtered into the courtyard. Roose felt Sansa stiffen in his arms, and he cast a searching gaze along her face; her plump pink lips were in a severe line, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes glued to the dark figure of her brother, waiting for him to dismount and see her. He moved his gaze to the Night’s watchmen and wildlings inside Winterfell’s walls. Roose was not going to be fooled twice, if Snow decided to attempt a sacking of Winterfell, he would find that all the Bolton and Vale men more than prepared for a fight. He quickly glanced at the archers stationed along the high walls of the stronghold, and parapets. He was prepared. 

Lord Commander Snow finally dismounted, hesitating for a moment as his hands rubbed the mare’s mane thoughtfully. His dark straggly hair and perpetual worried frown, so reminiscent of Eddard Stark, was a painful reminder to Roose that although he is a Snow, he could so easily become legitimized, could so easily claim his birthright. Roose felt Sansa loosen her grip from his hand, and take a step forward, causing Jon Snow to stop in his tracks; the frown etched on his face magically transform into one of pained relief. There was a palpable moment when the Stark siblings did not move, did not speak, until a choked sob erupted from his young wife as she threw herself into her brother’s arms. 

The sight of the Stark siblings in each others’ arms, audibly sobbing and pressing against each other was lodged into Roose’s chest. _This is her family, you fool. Did you think you were her only family? That she would have none but yourself, you murderer of her kin?_ Roose’s amiable countenance of the morning slowly solidified in reaction to his thoughts. She was in hell, living among men and women who did everything in their power to hurt her, _Even I hurt her_ , and now she clutched at her brother as if he had come to save her. After a moment, the two siblings broke up, tear-stained and red in the face, Jon Snow smiled affectionately at his sister, but Roose could not see Sansa’s face, could not see if she felt relieved at being rescued, or if she looked pained. When she finally turned around, with a smile framing her face, Roose didn’t realise he had been holding his breath. She pulled Jon Snow behind her as they came towards Roose. 

‘Jon’ she said, shifting her smiling eyes from her brother to Roose, ‘Meet my husband, Lord Bolton’ 

Roose pulled himself to his full frame, nodding imperceptibly at Snow. ‘Lord Commander Snow, welcome to Winterfell’ 

The young man was quiet for a moment. He was so unlike Robb Stark. Roose had been in the Young Wolf’s presence for so long that he was attuned to his every impatience huff, every raging outburst, every moon-struck expression he threw at his wife. Robb Stark reminded Roose far too much of Catelyn Stark, hot-headed and stubborn. Jon Snow, on the other hand, was quiet, with a sardonic expression of humility and solemness that transported Roose back to his audiences with Ned Stark, arguing back and forth heatedly while Ned Stark was quiet in a corner waiting for Roose to finish so he could bestow upon him the right path to justice and honesty. Lord Commander Snow held Roose’s gaze for a long time, searching his face, calculating his next move. His eyes seemed to say _You’ve killed my brother, you’ve taken Winterfell, you have my sister, and I do not know what to do with you_. 

‘Lord Bolton’ he finally bowed deeply, straightening to meet his sister’s eyes. ‘Thank you for having us’ 

‘Stay as long as you wish’ Roose murmured, ‘I am sure your sister would appreciate your company’ 

Sansa nodded eagerly, ‘Very much, Jon.’ But she frowned then, lowering her voice as she reached for Jon’s hand, ‘I’ve heard of the mutiny, of the wights..I thought the worse’ 

‘Aye, it is the worse, Sansa.’ Snow turned to Roose, ‘I have to thank your lordship for the men. They are helping keep watch with the men at the Wall’ 

Roose managed to rip his gaze enough from Sansa’s hands wrapped around her brother’s long enough to nod in acknowledgement. ‘My men will guide your men to rest, and for some food and ale. As for you, my lord, you should retire for the day until we can meet later to dine and talk of your business in Winterfell’ 

Snow stared between Roose and Sansa, ‘I came to see my sister’  
Before he could stop himself, Roose smiled. ‘Your sister has been in the North for quite some months’ 

Sansa looked away from her brother, and Snow had the decency to cough shyly. ‘I was beyond the Wall, when I had come back it was too la––’ he stilled, meeting Sansa’s gaze and realising he had to watch his words, ‘I am here now. Our survival, your lordship, depends on our cooperation to stop this evil beyond the Wall’ 

‘Jon’ Sansa cleared her throat, ‘I think it is best to discuss these things later. And Inside, where the men are not freezing to death in the cold’ 

Snow looked chided at his sister’s words and nodded smilingly. ‘Yes, Lady Sansa’ 

Roose stepped aside, and let the men filter in before him. When Sansa turned to him, with a questioning brow, Roose shook his head at her, motioning for her to head inside. He needed to think. 

Surprising him, Sansa got on her tip-toes, leaning against Roose’s frame, and pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss. When she pulled back, Roose felt that Sansa was not the only one who had difficulty articulating her feelings. He hated it. 

*** 

Sansa wanted to fly to Jon’s chambers, to hold onto him and sob her apologies at being such a horrid sister, for treating him like a bastard, for not being kinder to him like Arya and Robb were. But she couldn’t. She was lady of Winterfell, and he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. She would leave him rest after such a long journey, and before dinner she would go to her brother and escort him to the hall; they would have a few moments by themselves. _Jon. Jon is here. Jon is back to Winterfell._

Back in her chambers, she asked her maids to ready a bath for her. Once she was submerged into the scalding water, her lord husband entered their chambers. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Sansa’s relaxed figure in the water. Sansa dimpled shyly at the way his gaze swept over her hungirly, watching Roose stalk towards the bathtub. ‘Have you spoken to your brother yet?’ he asked, she could feel the tightness in his tone. 

‘Not yet’ she murmured. Her wet hand grabbed onto his and pulled him down. Roose acquiesced to her goading until he sat on the floor beside her, back resting against the bathtub edge, head turned slightly to the side towards Sansa. She felt warmth spread within her at the way his grey eyes were molten with patient affection, she moved to the edge of the tub and leaned her head against it, watching Roose. 

His gaze followed the finger she brought to his cheeks, which she ran absent-mindedly along his sides, and below his ears until Roose shut his eyes against the feel of her. He wanted to talk, she could see that. 

‘Were you much close to your brother?’ he finally asked.  
Sansa felt embarrassed. She was horrid to Jon. ‘I-I was not a very good sister to Jon. I was quite selfish and dramatic’  
Roose scoffed. ‘Was, my lady?’  
She flicked him with water. He flinched for a moment then smiled, settling back against her touch, staring at the bed infront of them. ‘I was much closer to Robb’ she paused for moment, noticing Roose had exhaled loudly, then continued. ‘But still, Robb was always talking about swords and tales, and not the kind that I enjoyed’ 

‘You enjoyed songs and romancing knights’ Roose murmured.  
She sighed, ‘yes. Only Jeyne understood my passion for these things. Sometimes we would play act, I would be a damsel, and Jeyne would pretend to be a knight come to win my affection’ 

Roose smirked at the tale. Sansa realised she was putting him at ease with her talking, her fingers moved to his chin, delicately running them against his stubble. ‘I would ask her to fight a dragon, to win a tourney, to find the rarest flower, and sometimes––’ Sansa giggled, ‘I would ask her to terrorise Arya’ 

‘And did she?’  
‘Jeyne was a horrid knight’  
Roose turned towards Sansa, his hand cupped her cheek as she spoke. ‘Domeric used to enjoy such stories as well.’  
Sansa grew quiet, blue eyes caught in the vibrance of Roose’s. ‘My own mother used to spin so many tales for me as a child, I related them to Domeric as he grew up, but I was not as imaginative with my retellings as my late mother’ 

He had never mentioned his family before. Sansa let out a shaky breath. _He is alone, just as I was before Jon came. His parents dead, his sons dead, no siblings to speak of, and no parents. He has no family. I am his only family._ The realisation burns her eyes with gathering tears, but she couldn’t cry infront of him. 

‘I never had a chance to ask you,’ she watched his hand slide against her throat, submerge into the water and brush against her nipple. She pushed her chest into his grasp, ‘what is your favorite tale?’ 

Roose stilled in his ministrations for a moment, blazing gaze turning soft for a moment as he raised it from her body to meet her eyes. He quirked one side of his mouth in response, ‘You will laugh’ 

Sansa smiled, ‘I will not. I promise’  
He sighed in defeat and nodded. ‘Alright, I quite enjoyed how my mother recited the Florian and Jonquil songs for me’ 

Sansa’s slack mouth betrayed her absolute shock. She had thought he would mention the Rat King, the Night’s King, or possibly even Symeon Star-Eyes. But Florian the Fool? ‘ _A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such a thing._ ’ she recited from the songs. 

Roose kept his gaze locked on her lips, but then moved to recite the rest, ‘ _Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned_ ’ 

Her hand slipped into the tub to bring Roose’s wandering hand to her mouth, she pressed a kiss to his fingers, not breaking eye contact with him. ‘Will you help me out?’ 

He nodded clipingly, clearly shaken at their overt display of affection. Sansa let him pull her out of the tub, his eyes following the droplets of water running down the expanse of her body as she waited for him to wrap the linen around her. He surprised her by drying her himself, his breathing got heavier and his gaze more heated, but he ran the fabric against every exposed part of her until she was completely dry. Only then did he let the linen fall to pool around their feet, and carried Sansa to their bed. He made love to her until Sansa wailed his name, feeling her heart constrict at how much she felt tied to him.


End file.
